


In Memory of Severus Snape

by abstractconcept



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Memory Loss, Past Ginny/Harry - Freeform, Romance, Snark, silliness, snarry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 13:05:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10308596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: More than twenty years after Voldemort’s death, Snape discovers Harry in long term care at St. Mungo’s with chronic memory problems. Snape doesn’t care that Potter has forgotten the war, his family or his schooling, but Severus Snape will be damned if he lets Potter forgethim.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication: For swansong33, for helping me with that dreadful citation assignment as well as all those other assignments. You are an amazing friend. <3  
> Beta: I have been fussing with this for some time, so those who had looked over this in the past are lmden, synn and murgy31, and further mistakes are my own.  
> Disclaimer: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, one quote from Carly Simon's "We Just Got Here."
> 
> AO3, I could give you _such a kicking_ tonight! Why u no import????

  
  
__

_In Memory of Severus Snape  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Nostalgia, you fake, you bittersweet ache . . .  
  
~*~*~*~*~_

  
  
It wasn’t that Severus Snape had an insatiable, pious desire to do good deeds. It was more like doing good deeds had become a bad habit he couldn’t break. Volunteering at St. Mungo’s was one of them.  
  
“And when did you last ovulate, Mrs. Applebaum?”  
  
The woman clutched the blanket to her chest. “I won’t be having with that kind of talk! My Albert never would have said such a dirty thing to me!”  
  
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Applebaum, what exactly is it that you think the word ‘ovulate’ means?”  
  
“I know very well what it means. Maybe it’s the clinical term, but I still won’t be holding with any sex talk!”  
  
“Ah. I think you may have gotten the words ‘ovulate’ and ‘copulate’ confused.”  
  
Ten years earlier, Snape would have been quicker on the draw. As it was, the aging woman caught him with a slap so potent it left his ears ringing.  
  
“FILTH!” she screeched.  
  
Snape grappled with the urge to hex her, overcame his baser instincts, ground his teeth and made a notation on the clipboard. He toyed with the idea of marking the box next to ‘mentally incompetent’ but he didn’t have the credentials to be marking such boxes, so it would only draw unwanted attention when someone checked his notes.  
  
He took several deep breaths and counted backwards from fifty. “It’s nothing serious, Mrs. Applebaum,” he finally growled.  
  
“Don’t tell me what’s not serious! I can barely move my hand, I can!”  
  
“Next time pull the punch,” Snape told her sourly. He consulted his chart again about her original medical condition. It was simple enough. “Take this potion twice daily for two weeks and return if the pain worsens,” he added in a monotone.  
  
To his horror, the woman grabbed the vial, Banished the cork and downed the whole thing in one swallow. “Ha! Call that a remedy? Compared to Doctor Kilmer’s Swamp Root that’s nothing! Why, this hardly makes me want to throw up at all!”  
  
Snape shut his mouth with a snap. “Wait,” he advised.  
  
The woman burped hugely, a cloud of luminescent green gas erupting from her mouth. Snape waved an irritable hand, dissipating it.  
  
“I need a Healer!” he shouted.  
  
A woman appeared at his side. She was mostly bosom with her hair done up in a neat grey bun, an expression of perpetual good cheer on her face. “Oh, dear. Problems with Mrs. Applebaum?” she asked sympathetically.  
  
“Fanny! She ingested an entire vial of concentrated heartburn cure! It will have to be Banished, and I haven’t the authority.”  
  
“Ah,” Fanny replied, sending someone to get a Healer and steering a fuming Snape away from the old woman. “Someone should have told you—you have to be careful with Widow Applebaum. She’s a bit of a handful. And she slaps, too. She didn’t manage to get you, did she?”  
  
Snape scowled at the woman.  
  
“Sorry about that,” Fanny said cheerfully at seeing Snape’s reddened cheek. “But you’ll get better with experience. You’re just a bit _young_ , that’s all.”  
  
Snape ground his teeth.  
  
When Snape had chosen his long-term disguise, just after his supposed death, he’d picked something he’d thought would be fun. He would be a young, svelte, blonde—with an emphasis on the ‘e.’ While this _had_ led to more men grabbing his arse (action he hadn’t hitherto gotten in a good long while) it had also led to complications.  
  
Like the fact that absolutely no one took him seriously.  
  
Fanny patted his arm. “Never mind, love. Just you run along and we’ll call you again when we need an extra pair of hands. Just leave the rest to the professionals.”  
  
Disgruntled, Snape whirled and began marching through the corridors, generating many strange looks. He willed himself to calm down and walk with more grace. Despite the fact that he’d been disguising himself as a woman in public for many years now, he still sometimes forgot that he couldn’t stomp the way he used to—not without drawing attention.  
  
He’d set himself up as a near-squib, a witch with good healing potions and not much else. He sold the potions from his home and, occasionally, volunteered his time at St. Mungo’s and doled out simple potions for minor aches and ills.  
  
He’d thought it would be a good way to start over, being a pretty girl and working part time. Instead it was . . . _dull._  
  
He’d also rather fancied that the arse-slapping was supposed to be _fun._ It was supposed to make you feel naughty and titillated and leave you giggling, wasn’t it? That was the impression he’d always had. Instead it inspired him to haul off and curse people. He tried to tell himself he should flirt, but he just couldn’t seem to get the hang of blushing and giggling. He always ended up feeling defensive and angry. Of course, it would help if not just _anyone_ was allowed to grab his arse. He was still waiting on the buff young stallions—for some reason it was nearly always older men with nose hair who wanted to feel him up.  
  
Still, it was a living, and a damn sight better than being a Death Eater.  
  
Snape checked his watch; one o’clock. He had time for a cup of tea and he could really use one. He decided to head up to the fifth floor to get one. St. Mungo’s tea was only marginally more palatable than armadillo bile, but Snape happened to know it was also dosed with a few drops of Calming Draught, and that would do for him.  
  
He made his way upstairs, one knee protesting. He’d have to be quick; the Polyjuice was just beginning to wear off. He probably had another several minutes, but then, he could sneak a few drops into his tea once he got upstairs and that would serve until he got home.  
  
Snape reached the fourth floor landing just as someone else came through the double doors at speed, nearly knocking Snape down the stairs.  
  
“Sorry, miss! Mind yourself! It’s Death Eaters! They’re after me!”  
  
Snape looked round wildly, but didn’t see anyone remotely like a Death Eater. And anyway, he kept tabs on the few who were still living, and none seemed likely to cause any trouble.  
  
Snape clutched the handrail as a Trainee Healer ran after the patient. “Harry! Get back to your room! You’ll do yourself an injury. Apologies,” he added to Snape, but Snape ignored him. He was staring at the patient in shock.  
  
“You’re—Harry Potter,” he croaked.  
  
This was _not_ being a good day. He’d been slapped, verbally abused and patronised, and now he was staring right into the face of the last person he ever wanted to clap eyes on again—that damnable brat, Harry Potter.  
  
“Do I know you?” Potter asked.  
  
Snape frowned. Ah, yes—he was so flustered he’d nearly forgot about his disguise. “Of course not,” he replied in a clipped voice.  
  
“Didn’t think so,” Harry replied with a grin. “I’d never forget a pretty girl like you.”  
  
The Trainee Healer rolled his eyes. “You forget _everyone_ ,” he pointed out.  
  
“Not the important people,” Potter insisted. “I know your name is . . . Bob.”  
  
“Yes, it’s on my nametag,” Bob replied patiently. “Not five minutes ago you thought I was a servant of You-Know-Who, come to get you.”  
  
Snape scowled. Wasn’t that just like Potter? Thought he was too good for everyone and now that he was rich and famous, he didn’t even bother to keep track of the little people. Still, it was odd . . .  
  
“I know one name you haven’t forgotten,” Snape said loudly.  
  
“I doubt that, Miss,” the Trainee Healer began, but Snape waved him to silence. Potter would never forget _his_ name. In the first place, he’d made Potter’s life hell for a good portion of his formative years. In the second place, Potter had named his son after Snape. Snape had read it in the paper.  
  
Potter nodded. “I know lots of names, you know. Stephen, Richard, Andrew, Joe . . . um . . . Joe . . . Alfred . . .”  
  
“But one name is _special_ ,” Snape hissed.  
  
“Miss, I don’t think you should do this. You oughtn’t get him riled. You see, he’s—”  
  
With a wave of Snape’s wand, Bob’s mouth clamped shut. “ _One name_ you could never forget,” he snarled.  
  
Harry looked confused, slightly uneasy. “What name’s that?”  
  
Snape leaned forward until his lips were brushing Potter’s ear. “ _Severus Snape_ ,” he hissed. He drew back, crossing his arms over his chest triumphantly.  
  
Potter’s eyes were unfocused. His mouth moved, silently trying out the name. Then, to Snape’s fury and astonishment, he shrugged. “Don’t recognise it. Sorry.”  
  
“You. Don’t. _Recognise it?_ ” Snape’s frame was beginning to shake with anger.  
  
Potter hardly seemed to notice Snape’s building wrath. He was busy excavating one ear with his little finger. “Nope, sure don’t.”  
  
“You don’t recognise it?” Snape repeated. He really couldn’t think of anything else to say, apart from, perhaps, _Crucio_. He felt a tic start under his left eye.  
  
“Might have known it once, I guess, but I sure don’t remember hearing it,” Harry replied. “You’d think I’d remember a name like that, wouldn’t you? What a funny name—Severus Snape.”  
  
Snape had sacrificed _everything_ for the boy. He’d killed. He’d lied. He’d risked his life countless times and, in the end, he’d even _died_ , more or less.  
  
The Trainee Healer made fish faces, waving his hands frantically in the background.  
  
Snape felt his form began to shift. He felt as though he were billowing upwards in rage, though really, it was just the Polyjuice wearing off.  
  
Harry gaped up at him, astonished. “Neat trick!” he exclaimed. “What’d you say your name was again?”  
  
Snape lost all control.  
  
“MY NAME IS SEVERUS SNAPE!” he roared. Just as his hands seized the bugger’s throat and began to squeeze in a satisfyingly terminal way, everything went black.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Snape found himself in a hospital bed, aching all over.  
  
As he opened his eyes, Potter swam into view looking worried. “You all right, mate?”  
  
Snape tried to bare his teeth, but his lips hurt too much.  
  
Potter patted him tentatively on the shoulder. “It took nearly four stunning spells to bring you down. You’re like a rhinoceros!” He eyed Snape’s prominent nose and grinned. “In more ways than one.”  
  
Snape managed a soft groan.  
  
“You’ll feel better soon, or so they tell me,” Potter assured him. He sat on Snape’s bed—right on his bed, as though he had the right!—and sighed. “They were going to call the Aurors in, but they didn’t. I think maybe it was because I asked them not to. I still have some kind of sway,” he added with a rather weak attempt at a smile.  
  
Snape worked his jaw, finding he could move it, providing he didn’t try anything too outlandish with it. “Why?” he finally managed.  
  
Potter shrugged, looking down at his hands. “I dunno.” He heaved a great sigh. “Yeah, I do,” he admitted. He looked at Snape with a strange look on his face, then reached out and tenderly brushed a lock of hair away from the man’s forehead. “We must have been really close, once,” he whispered.  
  
Snape blinked. “What makes you say that?”  
  
Harry smiled. “For you to get so angry because I didn’t remember you? I must have meant a lot to you. I just think we must have been really terrific friends, if it hurt you so much—the idea that I couldn’t remember you anymore.”  
  
“Or truly epic enemies,” Snape replied.  
  
Harry just laughed. “Yeah, right. Hey, tie my shoe, would you?”  
  
Snape’s brow furrowed. “The stunning spells may have done me real damage. I could have sworn you just asked me to tie your shoe.”  
  
The brat looked adorably, disgustingly bashful at this, reddening and ducking his head. “I did. Would you mind? I can never remember where the rabbit’s supposed to go.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“The bunny goes down the hole. I think. But _which_ hole? I never get it right,” Harry said, propping his foot up on the bed. His laces were intricately knotted. “To be honest, I’m not even supposed to have them—it’s supposed to be slippers, but Brian lets me keep them for practice.”  
  
“Bob,” Snape corrected without thinking.  
  
“Bob,” Harry agreed. His face clouded. “Who’s Bob?”  
  
“The Trainee Healer I saw you with earlier.”  
  
“Oh. I don’t remember that.”  
  
Snape stared. “You really don’t remember me, do you?” He gingerly scooted up until he was in a sitting position, then took Harry’s foot in his lap and began to undo the laces. “This would be easier if I had my wand,” he remarked.  
  
“No wands allowed!” another voice said cheerfully.  
  
Snape looked round to see Lockhart in the next bed. The man gave him a jolly wave. “I bet you’re here for an autograph.”  
  
“Only if I can put it on your cast,” Snape replied.  
  
“What cast?”  
  
“One could be arranged,” Snape muttered, still working on Harry’s knots.  
  
“I’m really famous, you know,” Lockhart said conversationally.  
  
“Indeed.” Snape was really not in the mood.  
  
Fanny bustled in just then, plump and pleasant, nodding hello to Snape. “Harry, you run along across the hall. It’s time for your Cheering Charm.”  
  
Harry watched as Snape quickly laced his shoe, then he popped to his feet. “Back in a jiff,” he said.  
  
The woman turned to Snape. “Well, you came as a surprise, and no mistake,” she said. “I’ve had how many cups of tea with you? And here’s me telling you all about my Jerry’s little problem.”  
  
Snape gave a philosophical shrug. “It happens to the best of us.”  
  
“Well, I can’t say I’m pleased to know you were lying to me, but seeing as how you mixed up that jallop that cured my bunions, I put in a good word for you downstairs. I thought I ought to let you know: since you’re technically an employee and all, they’re going to handle your little outburst internally.”  
  
“I do hope that doesn’t mean removing any intestines or anything of that nature.”  
  
Fanny laughed merrily. “Bless you, no. It means a lot of paperwork and probably not much else, though of course you’re sacked.”  
  
“The mercies of bureaucracy,” Snape said with a sigh.  
  
“Well, they don’t want to admit they didn’t run thorough background spells,” she admitted. “Plus, we’re in a bit of a grey area. No one seems to know whether you’re a villain or a hero. The management doesn’t like grey areas.”  
  
Snape nodded to the door. “Does Potter really need Cheering Charms?” he asked.  
  
Fanny’s happy, ruddy countenance sobered. “Indeed he does. They’re a preventative measure, really. He’s usually a lamb, but he has his little moments.”  
  
“Potter? Really?” Though thinking back to the boy’s fifth year, it didn’t really seem so odd that Harry continued to have problems with his temper.  
  
“It’s frustration, mostly. But he can turn very nasty when the mood is on him, and it’s best all round to forgo that sort of thing if possible.”  
  
“Tell me, what happened to him?”  
  
The woman sighed, sitting on Snape’s bed. “No one really knows,” she said with a little shrug. “Multiple spells, apparently. That’s what the diagnosis was, anyway. It’s rather hard when your patient can’t remember anything.”  
  
“Did a Memory Charm backfire?”  
  
“That may have been part of it. But it’s really a mystery.”  
  
Snape frowned. “How long as he been here?”  
  
“Three years come August.”  
  
“ _Three years?_ Why wasn’t it ever in the papers?”  
  
Fanny chuckled. “There’d be security problems, for starters. Advertise that the Boy Who Lived is helpless as a little lost puppy? There are still them folks who’d be happy to see him dead and gone.”  
  
Snape’s blood ran cold. And after all those years of protecting the brat!  
  
“Severus Snape, for instance—his body disappeared right after the war, and though the boy had a service for him, his grave lies empty. Young Harry Potter might have forgiven him after You Know Who fell, but some people felt that grave stayed empty because Severus Snape didn’t yet feel like filling it. And anyway, it would come as a shock to no one if the man showed up and tried to do Harry Potter an injury, if he knew where to find him.”  
  
Snape could feel blood pounding in his ears. “Thank Merlin that never occurred to Bob or the others who Stunned me when I made a grab at the boy.”  
  
“I’m sure it did occur to them, but you forget, we’re Healers, not Aurors. Our first instinct is to do no harm.”  
  
“Even to a psychopathic, would-be killer?” Snape inquired, one eyebrow raised.  
  
Fanny squeezed his shoulder. “Especially not to a psychopathic, would-be killer,” she assured him. “We’d want to fix him and stop these unfortunate, naughty impulses.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Which is why you’ll be here a while.”  
  
“I should have expected that. But I’m completely sane,” Snape added.  
  
“They all do say that. But you must understand that it’s just as well to be sure,” Fanny told him.  
  
“Why has Potter been here so long? What about his family?”  
  
“They visit, weekends and holidays mostly. But he needs special, round the clock care.”  
  
“He’s a loony,” Lockhart cheerfully put in.  
  
“My dear, what have I told you about that word? It isn’t nice.”  
  
Lockhart sighed. “He has a _chronological, neurological impairment,_ ” he said. “It’s worse than mine,” he added, brightening. “At least I can learn things!”  
  
Snape turned to Fanny with trepidation. “What is Potter’s prognosis?”  
  
The woman clicked her tongue, shaking her head sadly. “Permanent partial long term memory loss, chronic partial short term memory loss,” she said. “There is no hope of recovery.”  
  
Just then, the door swung open and Potter appeared. He stared at Snape. “What’s that strange man doing in my bed?”  
  
Snape felt another flicker of annoyance. Potter had forgotten him, had he? Well, Snape would have something to say about that.  
  
“He’ll never manage joined up writing,” Lockhart opined.  
  
“He’ll learn _something,_ ” Snape predicted. Potter shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable under what was, to him, a strange man’s oddly intent gaze. “One way or another, he’ll learn _something._ ”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
“And the rabbit goes . . .?”  
  
Potter’s eyes shifted from one lace to the other, then back. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. “It goes—it goes—down the hole.”  
  
“Which hole?”  
  
Potter brought his hands up, fisting them in his hair. _“I don’t know! Whichever hole the carrots are down!”_ he yelled.  
  
Snape sat back. “Calm yourself,” he instructed curtly. “Think of how you’re appearing to others. Do you want to be seen as a ticking time bomb?”  
  
A muscle worked in Harry’s jaw. “No,” he said.  
  
“What is the last thing you remember?” Snape asked abruptly.  
  
Harry looked up, blinking. “The rabbit goes down the hole?”  
  
“Yesterday,” Snape said impatiently. “What happened _yesterday?_ ”  
  
Potter’s forehead wrinkled. “I . . . it was a dark room. And I was angry. I was so angry and—sad.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“I don’t remember.”  
  
Before Potter could finish, the door slammed open. “What are you doing with your hands on Harry?”  
  
Harry looked up and grinned. “Hey, Ron! This is Severus Snape. Isn’t that an odd name? He’s teaching me to tie my shoes.”  
  
And just like that, Severus saw the fight go out of Weasley. “You remember me today,” he said weakly.  
  
Harry looked puzzled.  
  
“Have a seat, Mr. Weasley,” Snape told him. “And let’s talk about Mr. Potter’s condition.”  
  
Ron slunk in and sort of deflated into a chair. He looked at Harry with a sad smile. “How are you doing, mate?”  
  
Harry sighed. “Not so good. I just can’t figure out these bunnies.”  
  
“At least they’re not dragons. Remember the dragons, mate? Back in fourth year?” Ron asked hopefully.  
  
Harry looked troubled. “I . . . think I remember something about some dragons.”  
  
“We had such a big fight. I thought you were showing off. I didn’t realise what a berk I was being until I saw you and that dragon.”  
  
Harry nodded and smiled. “Right, yeah.” Snape could tell he didn’t have the vaguest idea what Weasley was on about, but didn’t want to upset his friend. “Listen, I need to use the loo, okay? I’ll be right back.”  
  
Ron watched him leave with a funny look on his face. “He’s never going to get better,” he whispered.  
  
“I believe he will, with work,” Snape answered.  
  
Weasley glared at him suspiciously. “The Healers say he won’t.”  
  
“Who are you going to believe? Them? Or _me?_ ” Snape snarled, grabbing Ron by the front of his robes and hauling him forward.  
  
“I guess you’re more impressive in certain respects,” Ron said grudgingly. Snape nodded in approval until he added, “You managed to kill Dumbledore, anyway. I suppose it would have taken some real talent in specific areas. I just don’t see how that sort of thing helps Harry,” he added in a cold voice.  
  
Letting go of Ron’s robes, Snape sank back against the pillows. “Albus Dumbledore could not have been killed by the likes of me. He was already dying. He allowed me to put him out of his misery—and it was a terrible misery, I can assure you—and further his cause in the process. If you wish to credit me with something, credit me with keeping you all alive, especially during the times you seemed so intent on being killed in creative and brutal ways.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“The forest. When I returned the Elder Wand to Harry. Back in your first year, when I attempted to keep Quirrell from killing Harry via psychotic broomstick. Or your third year, when a man who was—to my knowledge—an escaped convict, murderer and maniac awaited you at the Shrieking Shack—alongside his good chum the werewolf, no less. Who was it who thrust themselves between the three of you idiot Gryffindors and their certain doom? Who took responsibility? Who tried to save you?”  
  
Ron looked up at the ceiling. “Okay, so you saved us. We might not have needed your help, or we might not have known you were saving us, or you might have been saving us for your own selfish reasons, and you were a complete and utter bastard the entire time you were doing it, but you saved us. Or tried to, more or less. Happy?”  
  
“Do you trust me with Potter?” Snape asked quietly.  
  
Ron squirmed, frowning. “Guess so.”  
  
“Do you trust me more than you trust _them?_ ” Snape responded, giving a sparse gesture with his hand that nevertheless seemed to encompass the hospital and all occupants in it.  
  
Ron hesitated, then nodded. “They say there isn’t any hope. But if you say there is . . . well. You’re good at potions,” he noted. “Yeah, I think maybe you could do what they couldn’t do.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Worth a try,” Ron said with a grin.  
  
Harry hurtled back into the room. He was shaking. “I saw a bloke in the bathroom looking at me strangely,” he blurted, his face white.  
  
Ron stood up quickly. “Show me.”  
  
“He wasn’t even there until I came out of the stall,” Harry fretted. “Then suddenly he was. Just right there, looking at me. I just about jumped out of my skin.”  
  
Ron led the way into the bathroom, his wand out. Harry followed a bit more timidly, since he had no wand. Ron took a cursory glance around the room and gave Snape a shrug and bewildered look over Harry’s shoulder.  
  
“He was on the right—as you come in—that’s where he was standing. He—” Harry stopped as he walked into the room and turned, giving a shudder. “There!”  
  
Ron grabbed him. “Harry, that’s _you,_ mate! It’s all right, it’s just a mirror.”  
  
“No—no—I don’t remember a mirror there before!” Harry said desperately—unbalanced and afraid.  
  
Ron tried to comfort him, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders, holding him steady. “The mirror has only been there a little while. It’s okay if you don’t remember it, Harry. It’s really just a mirror.”  
  
Snape was opening his mouth to tell Ron to put the wand away—there hadn’t been a man about and Harry was growing increasingly upset. “Please put the—” he said, and that was as far as he got, because suddenly Harry twisted free of Ron’s grip and snatched Ron’s wand.  
  
Snape and Ron both went very, very still. In contrast, Harry was trembling.  
  
“I promise you, it’s all right, Harry,” Ron said in the calmest voice he could manage. “You saw yourself in the mirror.”  
  
“ _I don’t remember the mirror!_ ” Harry bellowed. “And that doesn’t even look like me!”  
  
Ron took two steps back; good thinking, Snape felt. Harry felt pressured. If the tension increased, he could go off. Somehow they had to ease the tension.  
  
“Harry,” Snape murmured, “would you do something for me? Something to help me?”  
  
Shaking and looking wildly from the door to the floor to the window to Snape, Harry managed to grind out, “What do you want?” Severus realized he hardly noticed the wand in his hand. This could be better, or worse. The wand was clearly the last thing on his mind, but that didn’t mean an ill-advised thought couldn’t set the thing off and kill someone, even on accident.  
  
“Would you stand with me? In front of the mirror. And tell me what you see. And just—talk to me,” Snape said.  
  
Edging toward Snape and the mirror, Harry’s face twisted as if to say he’d rather not do as Snape said. Still, he came in front of the mirror. “And say what?” Harry asked. “Talk to you about what?”  
  
“What things do you have on your mind right now?” Snape suggested.  
  
Harry shook his head hard, his shaggy hair dancing angrily.  
  
“Okay, not that. What would you _like_ to talk about?”  
  
Harry looked up. There were tears at the corners of his eyes. “No one believes me. I’m not just crazy. I don’t make things up. I’m not stupid.”  
  
“Indeed you’re not. What do you see in the mirror now?” Snape asked gently.  
  
“Me,” Harry said in a choked voice. “And you.”  
  
“Just us? Are either of us standing where the man stood?”  
  
Harry nodded, his whole posture slumping. “Yes, there. That man,” he pointed to himself without looking. “I didn’t know,” he added, his voice thick with tears. “It barely looks like me. And it’s a new mirror. And . . . I really must be crazy,” he finished, beginning to weep. The wand fell from his hand and Ron dove and caught it.  
  
“I think I’m just going to go . . . put this somewhere safe,” he said in a strangled voice.  
  
Snape put an arm around Harry and steered him out of the loo. “It was an honest mistake.”  
  
“Yeah, _right_. And anyone could have made it, I’ll bet.”  
  
“Well, no,” Snape conceded. “But in these circumstances, it’s understandable. They redecorated. That’s hard on you. You need routine. Your short term memory is damaged. Certainly you can’t be expected to remember they installed a new mirror. And your long term memory is damaged,” he added rather more gently. “Things come and go, and you’re no longer good with names and faces. What you saw in the mirror likely had no relation to the boy you sometimes still believe yourself to be. Naturally you were frightened.”  
  
“For a moment,” Harry admitted grimly. “But it quickly turned to anger and embarrassment. Everything sets me off. I get confused and feel cornered, I get angry and then someone pats me on the head or shows me what an idiot I am, and I get embarrassed—and depressed.”  
  
Snape squeezed his shoulder. “That’s understandable.” He led Harry back to his room. “It’s an unenviable situation.”  
  
Harry looked up and managed a wan smile after a few moments. “Thanks, by the way.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“Not talking down too much or tackling me like I’m some sort of mad hazard to society.”  
  
“Tackling is a bit much of a strenuous effort for me these days.”  
  
“Everyone else seems to do it. Hell, maybe I _am_ a danger, I don’t know. It’s not like I can tell the difference a lot of the time, especially when I start to . . . you know, go to a bad place in my head.” Harry sighed, dragging his hands over his tired face. “I just wish things would stop _changing,_ ” he whispered. “I just wish things could stay the same. And I really, really wish I had more control over—everything.”  
  
In spite of Harry’s complaints about head pats, Snape found himself eyeing that mussed head, then gave into a sudden impulse to muss it more, finding it softer than expected. Potter did not protest, or perhaps he didn’t really notice. “Well, when you go to a bad place and come out not knowing whether you’re a danger, you can count on me to help you figure it out,” Snape told him.  
  
Harry smiled at this. “Thanks.” He began to shiver a little as the adrenaline subsided, leaving him trembling and pale. “Wow, I’m tired,” he remarked. “Being stupid takes a lot out of you.”  
  
“Never mind,” said Snape. Harry dropped into his bed with a sigh. He seemed to relax, the tension ebbing from his shoulders, as he found himself back among familiar things. Snape kept a close eye. “Take a nap and things will seem better when you wake.” He smoothed the blankets back to let Harry scoot under them, gave the boy a last nod, then met a grim-faced Ron out in the hallway.  
  
“You really think you can fix _that?_ ” Ron asked.  
  
Snape’s eyes remained on Harry as the young man’s breathing began to even out, sleep slipping over his features like a veil. He hardly looked a danger right now. Perhaps with the right measures in place, he wouldn’t be.  
  
“I’m not absolutely certain I can fix anything,” Snape admitted. Harry whimpered in his sleep, and Snape’s jaw tightened. “But I intend to try.”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Snape sat and read in the bay window, the sun warm on his shoulders. It helped ease some of the old aches.  
  
“Hi,” Harry said, approaching with a platter. “I brought elevensies. They let me carry it. It’s toast. And things. What are you reading?”  
  
Snape set aside the convoluted tome on magical memory loss. “Nothing much. You’d find it dry, I assure you.”  
  
“Well, have some toast,” Harry offered, setting up the meal. “Only be sure to butter it, because it’s even dryer than your book. And there’s jam, too. I quite like the jam—raspberry. I never got jam back when—back when—” Harry broke off, looking puzzled.  
  
“You didn’t get jam?” Snape prompted as kindly as he could manage.  
  
“No-ooo,” Harry said slowly, thinking it over. “Not in that place.”  
  
“Can you tell me what you remember about that place?”  
  
Harry’s forehead creased. He looked distressed—confused, angry or hurt, Severus couldn’t discern. “It was bad,” Harry told him curtly, then took a large bite of toast and a gulp of tea to prevent further talk.  
  
Snape was amused. As a Death Eater, he’d been subject to far more reticent subjects, all of them more skilled at keeping their silence than Potter.  
  
Snape leaned forward. “Did they beat you?”  
  
Harry jolted, spilling tea on his gown. He blinked. “N-no, I don’t think so. But I didn’t _like_ it. I was—it was lonely. There wasn’t anyone like me. They bullied me.” He pinned Snape with a furious look. “Why do you want me to remember things that I don’t want to remember?” he demanded.  
  
“Because I suspect emotional memories have stronger ties. They ought to be easier to access.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“On that note, do you remember dying?” Snape asked in as offhand a voice as he could manage, toying with the cuffs of his sleeves.  
  
He had Harry’s full attention. “No. How could I remember something like that?”  
  
“I do,” Snape said with a shrug.  
  
“Now _you_ sound like the crazy one,” Harry told him.  
  
“I was at the train station, but the conductor told me that train wasn’t scheduled to leave for a while yet.” Snape smiled a little at the memory.  
  
“Really?” Harry’s eyes were focused somewhere in the distance. “You didn’t see anyone else?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Huh.” Harry tugged his ear. “For some reason, I thought there was someone else there. And the baby was left behind.”  
  
Snape arched a brow. “The baby?”  
  
Harry sighed. “I guess no one would leave a baby alone in a train station, would they? I must really be crazy.”  
  
“It’s possible the baby was an avatar or symbol of some sort.”  
  
Harry got up and leaned against the window, looking out, clearly closed to further conversation. “Nah. It was just a dream, probably.”  
  
“But don’t you think it possible that—”  
  
“ _Shut up!_ It was just a _dream!_ Don’t you know that I _already_ have problems sorting fantasy and reality? Why are you trying to make it worse?”  
  
Snape willed himself to stay calm. “We died and went to Platform 9 and ¾. Don’t you think this is a terrific coincidence?”  
  
“I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” Harry crossed his arms, eyes flashing, daring Snape to keep up the subject.  
  
Snape had to keep him off balance. He had to tease that thread loose. “Did the Dursleys beat you?” he asked  
  
Harry reeled back as though he’d been slapped. “I don’t know anyone with that name.” He was obviously lying. The word plainly meant something to him.  
  
“You said they bullied you. Did they beat you? Your uncle? That disgusting walrus of a man?”  
  
Harry was starting to look sort of sick. “I don’t know. I don’t know. They didn’t like me. They said I was a nasty boy. They said I was a f-freak,” he stuttered.  
  
“And you hated them.”  
  
“I—yes—sort of—”  
  
“Hate is a powerful emotion. Anger is powerful. Hold on to that. Think about it. _Think_ about it. When were you last angry?”  
  
“I don’t know. I guess in class.”  
  
Snape was on his feet suddenly, towering over the boy. “What class?” he asked, grabbing Harry’s arms, shaking him a little. “ _What class?_ ”  
  
“ _I DON’T KNOW!_ ” Harry roared, breaking free. He grabbed his head with both hands as if afraid it might burst. “I don’t remember! I don’t remember! Leave me alone! I don’t remember anything!”  
  
“ _Severus Snape!_ ” a voice shouted from the doorway.  
  
Severus turned to find Ms. Potter, née Weasley bearing down on him, her face red. “You let him alone!”  
  
“What business is it of yours?” Snape sneered. “Did you dump him here the moment he became defective, or did you try a week or two of home nursing, in the interest of public relations?”  
  
Snape was quite unprepared for—and secretly a little impressed with—the curse she hit him with. He was flung backward with such power that he didn’t come to rest until he was on the far side of the bed. “Well done,” he said bitterly.  
  
“Stop. _Stop!_ ” Harry begged.  
  
“We need a Healer in here!” Ginny yelled. One appeared almost instantly. “My husband needs another Cheering Charm,” she told the man with quiet dignity. “And I think I shall have a cup of tea.”  
  
Ten minutes later, she and Snape sat together at one of the little guest tables sipping tea and eyeing each other warily. “I should have known you’d turn up again,” Ginny spat. She looked away. “Not that it matters anymore. I don’t know why I should care either way.”  
  
“You didn’t divorce him, then?” he asked.  
  
She smiled a sad little smile. “I filed the paperwork yesterday, actually. I still care about him, you know,” she added with a sudden fierce passion. “I’ll never stop caring about him. But it could never be like a real marriage again. He barely knows me, and the things he remembers are all from childhood.”  
  
“And the children need a father,” Snape added.  
  
Her eyes widened a little. “How did you know about that?”  
  
Snape shrugged. “It was logical. It _is_ logical.” The girl had needs as well. It wasn’t at all surprising she’d eventually found someone to meet them. She wasn’t an old woman. She was, in fact, still of child-bearing age, and very pretty. Even Potter wouldn’t begrudge her the possibility of a real family—a whole, healthy family. And to have stayed with Potter for so long despite his memory loss only to divorce him now . . . well, it was obvious. She could see other men even if Harry was in hospital forever. But she couldn’t marry one. Not until she obtained a divorce. Severus cleared his throat. “I know you’re not doing it to be cruel to Harry.”  
  
Ginny looked back down at her tea. “He wouldn’t know the difference even if I were,” she sighed.  
  
“What happened to him?”  
  
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. The Healers told me it was a memory charm gone wrong. They found him wandering the halls of Hogwarts, babbling. We didn’t know how bad it was at first. We tried to care for him at home.”  
  
 _Hogwarts._ How unexpected. After a long silence, Severus prompted the girl. “But?”  
  
She shook her head, eyes glistening. “We’d had issues, of course. You’ve seen him. He gets—he has funny turns.”  
  
“I might have seen one.”  
  
“Do you have children, Snape? Nieces? Nephews? Anyone?” She bit her lip. “Did you know Al looks _just like him?_ If you stand at a distance, you couldn’t even tell the difference. We were—at the Burrow—and George was supposed to be watching him. I don’t even know how to explain it. Someone turns their back for a split second and the whole world falls apart,” she choked. “And there he was, his wand pressed to Al’s head. He thought our son was a spy of Voldemort’s. _Our son._ What do you do in a situation like that? It wasn’t just the children, you know. It was only a matter of time until he hurt _himself._ And what were we to do? Every last one of us loved him. We would have done _anything_ for that man. But none of us had the training. None of us had time to pick it up. He needed help _immediately._ ”  
  
Snape hesitated, then gave her a nod. “I’m sorry.”  
  
She looked as though she didn’t believe him. “I have three children who don’t remember the war. I couldn’t let him bring it back to life. I couldn’t let it—bleed back, you know?”  
  
“I think I can help him.”  
  
Ginny laughed. “Well. You go ahead and try. I can’t imagine why you’re taking an interest, but . . . if that’s what you want, more power to you. But if you hurt him, so help me, I’ll make your life torture in ways Voldemort never could have dreamed.”  
  
“Spoken like a true Weasley,” Snape said, inclining his head.  
  
Ginny got up from the table and began to leave, then stopped abruptly. “You know, it’s funny,” she said.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“It’s really only Harry’s illness that kept us together _this_ long,” she admitted quietly. “I’d filed for divorce before, just before the charm backfired. But of course, then he needed me, so I dropped the whole thing.”  
  
“I see,” Snape said, mind racing. _Potter must have been in emotional turmoil, his marriage falling apart. Had he done something to himself? Was he trying to banish his pain or forget the cause of his rift with his wife? Or was Snape merely jumping to conclusions? It didn’t necessarily signify . . ._  
  
“Anyway, take care of him, would you? If I find you’ve been doing anything to hurt him—”  
  
“Understood.”  
  
“Yes. Well. Goodbye, then.”  
  
“Goodbye.”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
“You can’t just remove him from the premises!” Fanny had gulped in so much breath that her bosom seemed in imminent danger of exploding.  
  
“I’m cleared to leave,” Snape explained.  
  
“Yes— _you_ are! Harry isn’t! He never will be, poor thing.”  
  
“Nonsense. He can come and live with me.” Snape adjusted his collar, eyeing himself in the rather sceptical mirror, which was muttering about paedophelia. “Merlin’s beard, he’s too old for you to use such a word; he has _three children_ ,” he told the thing. “None of whom arouse me,” he added in an undertone.  
  
“He’s suspiciously youthful,” the mirror shot back. “And he’s a pretty boy even with the lines on his face.”  
  
“Which doesn’t make me some sort of PERVERT!” Snape hollered. “And it STILL WOULDN’T, EVEN IF I WANTED TO PLAY HIDE THE SAUSAGE WITH HIM, WHICH INCIDENTALLY I DON’T!”  
  
The mirror huffed, fogging itself.  
  
“ _Language_ , dear!” Fanny scolded. She began smoothing and fussing over Snape’s outfit. “The apricot is very nice, very spiffy,” she murmured. “And he really is a very pretty boy, I can see why you fancy him.”  
  
Infuriated, Snape ripped off his ascot, fighting to disentangle himself from it. “I DO NOT FANCY HIM. Also,” he added in a much chillier tone, “apricot _does not suit me._ ” He crumpled the thing and shoved it at her. “Can we please just return to Common Sense Corner for a moment? I do not fancy Potter. I simply feel he would be better off with me for the moment.”  
  
“But _why_ dear? We’re so much better equipped and you know how he tends to melt down.”  
  
Snape gripped Fanny by her shoulders and pressed her to a wall. “But you’ve been _redecorating._ You’ve been trying to modernize. Harry can’t take this kind of instability!” St. Mungo’s had received many new cases after the war, and they were still struggling to adjust and expand, even years later. Now that the construction had reached Harry’s ward, St. Mungo’s was no longer the right place for him.  
  
“But where will he go? Back with his family? He’s a danger. Back with you? He can’t live like a bachelor, you know. He’ll need help. So will you both,” Fanny insisted.  
  
She was right. Potter _would_ need supervision and a great deal of attention. But they could worry about that later. First, they’d have to find accommodation. “I’ve a little saved up,” Snape told her. “I’ll find a place for him. Something peaceful and out of the way. He’ll be safe. He’ll be fine, Fanny.”  
  
The woman sighed and threw her hands up. “Well, if you’re determined—”  
  
“I _am._ ”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
“What do you think?” Snape asked.  
  
Harry looked around the dusty room, frowning. “Too gloomy.” There was only one window, and it was covered in grime.  
  
Snape sighed. He liked the place well enough—it was a small flat, but conveniently located in Diagon Alley. It would have suited him well, but he knew that Potter’s diagnosis meant they would have to be wary of possible depression, and it wouldn’t do to move the boy to a place where he was obviously and immediately ill at ease.  
  
So Snape turned back to the witch from Rune’s Realtors. “Do you have anything else?”  
  
The woman gave a quasi-shrug. “Well, I do have _one_ other place in your price range. I’m afraid it’s a bit out of the way, though.”  
  
“Let’s see it, then.”  
  
They Floo’d and ended up nearly having to crawl out of the fireplace on the other end. “The Floo _is_ a bit tight,” the realtor admitted, getting up and brushing her robes off. “But the property is just _adorable_.”  
  
Snape scowled. “That’s one of those weaselly advert words that means _piddling,_ does it not?”  
  
The woman blinked a little. She wore large spectacles and this made her seem very surprised and owlish. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“Be nice to the pretty lady,” Harry admonished.  
  
“Pretty?” Snape repeated sourly. “I’d have called her more of a fixer-upper.”  
  
The woman made a face at him, but Potter interrupted again before the argument could really take off. “Look! Look! You can see the sea! And look, here’s a shelf next to the window. I like this shelf. And the curtains are nice. I like these curtains.”  
  
Snape allowed Potter to lead him round by the hand. He was being careful and keeping close to the boy in case of any funny turns, but Potter seemed stable enough at the moment. Of course, it rather helped that he’d dosed the brat with a number of mood-altering potions, Snape allowed, looking at Harry’s spacey eyes and rather absent smile. “Where are we exactly—near Dawlish?” Snape asked the real estate woman.  
  
“Technically Cockwood,” the woman replied. “This cottage was once part of a bed and breakfast.”  
  
“The price is a _bit_ high,” Snape remarked, remaining aloof.  
  
“Your boyfriend seems enchanted by it,” the woman replied with a rather cunning smile.  
  
“It’s cheery,” Harry put in, apparently not the least upset by being referred to as Snape’s boyfriend.  
  
Snape groaned. Of course it was cheery—it was a former vacation spot, whitewashed and ginghamed and fretworked within an inch of its life. “I can’t imagine being able to whip up a delicate potion with a patchwork dog overseeing things,” he said, gesturing to one of the stupid tchotchkes on a shelf.  
  
“You can always redecorate,” the woman said.  
  
“I don’t know. I’d prefer to be closer to civilisation. And there’s hardly room for all my potions ingredients, let alone my library,” Snape hedged.  
  
“Oh, is that what’s hanging you up? The previous owner _was_ a witch,” the realtor noted. She went over to one wall, which had a rather hideous wooden ship’s wheel hung jauntily above a bench. She grasped it and spun as though steering the whole cottage to starboard. Then she stepped back, and the wall on which the wheel hung swung outward with a creak. A dim and cobwebby stairway wound down out of sight.  
  
Snape sighed; the sight was like a refreshing sip of lemonade on a balmy day. “We’ll take it,” he said.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
“Fine, I’ll show you again. Here is the ground. Here is the tree trunk. The rabbit runs _around_ the tree and goes down the hole. See?”  
  
Harry looked up at Snape with glowing admiration. “You’re really good at that,” he said.  
  
Snape stared. “I spent _years_ instructing you in the art of potion making. I risked my life spying on your arch nemesis. I put myself in terrible danger to get you the sword of Gryffindor, the tool I knew you would need to destroy horcruxes, and you never _once_ said, ‘Hey, good job, chum. I really appreciate it.’ But now you fall all over yourself in gratitude when I _tie your shoes_?”  
  
Harry shrugged, standing. “In the first place, I don’t remember any of those things, so I’m not really in a position to comment. In the second place, maybe I just have twisted priorities. In the third place, maybe you’re just _really fantastic_ at tying shoes,” the brat said with a wicked grin.  
  
Snape rolled his eyes.  
  
“Can we go for another walk on the beach?” Harry asked eagerly.  
  
“ _No_. We spent all morning outside. I have research to do, and you’ve got a sunburnt nose.”  
  
“I do?” Harry touched his nose, surprised. “We weren’t out there _that_ long, were we?” he added, looking vaguely worried.  
  
“We were outside almost four hours. I don’t expect you to remember; twice you forgot where we were and the second time you frightened the life out of a fisherman by screaming at him to watch out for the Giant Squid. That’s when I decided it was time to come in.”  
  
Harry looked blank. “I don’t remember that.”  
  
Snape was familiar enough with Harry’s moods that he could sense a turn coming on. “Wait here and I’ll fetch you a cup of tea,” he said. He suspected a few drops of calming draught would not go amiss, and quickly ducked into the small kitchen. He had only been gone moments when he heard Potter scream.  
  
“Hermione! Hermione! _Ron, where are you?_ ”  
  
Snape was back in the front room in a flash. “I have some tea,” he began, but Harry’s posture was already defensive.  
  
“Who the hell are you? What have you done with them?” he demanded.  
  
“Nothing,” Snape replied swiftly. “Your friends are safe.”  
  
“You’re _lying!_ I can _tell!_ ” Harry drew in a shuddering breath. “I know you’re a servant of Voldemort’s. You look evil. You even _dress_ evil.”  
  
Snape was a touch offended by that. He’d even washed his hair that morning. “Apologies; next time I’ll wear a loud Hawaiian shirt if you think that will help.”  
  
He tried to get close to Harry, but Harry stepped sharply back. Snape saw Potter’s fingers reflexively squeeze and unflex, unconsciously holding a wand that was not there. This was dangerous. The boy was quite capable of wandless magic, and Snape would have to be fast if—  
  
As Snape took another step forward with the tea, Harry’s hand spasmed and an ornamental sextant above the kitchen door caught fire.  
  
Snape quickly immobilised the boy, then put out the fire. When he turned back to Potter, the boy’s eyes were round and frightened. Yet they were also rather confused. Harry blinked. “Uh-oh. You’ve got that little furrow in your brow that you get when you’re upset. What happened? Why am I on the floor?” he asked. The moment of danger had passed.  
  
“Nothing to get upset about,” Snape told him. “Just a bit of excitement. Here, have a sip of tea,” he added, helping the boy sit up. Harry sipped it gratefully, his whole body relaxing as the potion began to work.  
  
“I’m tired,” Harry complained. “And for some reason, my nose hurts.”  
  
“I’ll take you to bed and whip up a potion for it,” Snape assured him. He assisted Harry up onto sluggish feet.  
  
“Who are you?” Harry asked petulantly even as the man led him to bed.  
  
 _Not again._ “I’m . . . here to help you,” Snape said.  
  
“Are you my friend?” Harry whispered. He sounded so lost, so vulnerable, and yet Snape had never been one to be delicate with the vulnerable. He was cruel by nature, and he knew it.  
  
“We’ll have to see,” was all he could manage to grunt. He wasn’t here to coddle Potter, or to somehow become his best mate. He intended to fix the brat, and as expediently as possible.  
  
“But you’re a good friend,” Harry protested. The draught was well in his blood now; he sounded dozy and content. Snape untied those recently-tied trainers as Harry sat on the edge of the bed, watching the process happen vacantly. “You’re nice,” he mumbled as Snape began to untuck Harry’s shirt.  
  
“No, I’m not. Now lift your arms.” Harry did so obediently, and Snape lifted the shirt off and sailed it across the room to fold itself and set itself on a chest of drawers. Harry’s denims came off with magical assistance, because Snape felt too much like he’d be taking advantage otherwise, not that he actually would, but it was difficult to look at those lean, naked thighs and feel _nothing_. He quickly slid one of his own sleeping shirts over Harry’s head—much too long, and not the right colour, as the grim black washed the boy out, but indescribably easier than seeing all that stretch of skin.  
  
Harry lay back in his too-big shirt, looking adorably rumpled and glassy and young. He grabbed Snape’s hand as Snape pulled up the bedcovers. “But you _are_ nice,” Harry murmured insistently. “No one’s ever been nice to me. The Dursleys _hate_ me,” he informed Snape in a tremulous voice. “And I’m just glad you’re so nice.” He lifted Snape’s surprised, frozen hand, and nuzzled it gently.  
  
Snape gasped and snatched it back. “I’m sorry,” he told Harry in a clipped voice. “But I’m not nice.” He nearly ran for the door to douse the light.  
  
None of this seemed to have any effect on Harry at all; his eyes had been falling shut even as he pressed his warm face to the back of Snape’s hand—likely he had been drifting off right then, and by now he was snoring noisily.  
  
Nonetheless, Snape escaped the bedroom quickly, shutting the door between the two of them and leaning back on it. He couldn’t fathom why the whole thing had unsettled him so much.  
  
He wasn’t nice. He just wasn’t. If you were lucky, he would do whatever he had to do—he would give you whatever you needed. If you were lucky, you ended up better off than you were before you knew Snape. And you still didn’t like him. Because he gave you what you needed and not what you wanted, and because he was never, ever nice.  
  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
The front door rang early the next morning, and Hermione greeted Snape brightly at the door. “Hello, Professor. I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I’m glad to see you’re not actually dead.”  
  
“Thank you,” Snape replied with a sardonic half-bow. “Come in.”  
  
Hermione gave him a strange look. “If you don’t mind me asking; why are you wearing a bright green and pink Hawaiian shirt?”  
  
“It is for Mr. Potter’s benefit,” he intoned. He gave her a glare that dared her to continue this line of questioning, but it didn’t seem to help.  
  
“That’s . . . a new treatment for people who suffer from retrograde and anterograde amnesia, isn’t it?” Hermione asked with, Snape felt, insufferable cheek.  
  
“It’s cutting edge,” he told her icily.  
  
“Is Harry around?”  
  
Snape called for him, and Harry came out of his room with a book of short stories. “Oh, hey, Hermione,” he said, hugging her.  
  
She was, of course, delighted to find him reading. “Is it any good?” she asked eagerly. “What’s your favourite story so far?”  
  
“ _To Serve Man_ ,” Harry replied. In a rare moment of lucidity and candour, he added, “It’s great fun to read again and again when you keep forgetting the ending.” He smiled an impish little smile. “I _never see it coming._ ”  
  
Snape smiled as well. He’d found short fiction the ideal way to entertain Potter for brief periods; they were the right length for someone who’s mind tended to wander. And he wouldn’t swear to it, but they seemed to hone the boy’s critical thinking skills and help him retain small amounts of information.  
  
“And I’ve brought something,” Granger said to Harry with what Snape uncharitably thought of as a simper. She reached into her purse and cast an Engorgement Charm. “Bangers and mash, just the way you like them. You remember how you like bangers and mash, don’t you?” she added uncertainly.  
  
“I’m not a dimwit,” Harry replied, then mastered himself enough to accept the dish. “Sorry. I mean, who could forget your fantastic bangers and mash?”  
  
Granger beamed. “How’ve you been? Do you like it here?”  
  
Harry gave a shrug. “It’s a little kitschy, but it’s not as bad as Sirius’ house. Hey, I’m going to go put this in the kitchen, okay? Be right back.”  
  
After he’d left, Hermione sighed. “Any progress?”  
  
“No,” Snape said shortly. He looked at the girl through narrowed eyes. “He remembered you,” he said in an accusatory sort of way.  
  
“He does, sometimes,” Hermione agreed.  
  
Snape paced, his steps carrying him in a circle around Granger. “But he remembered Black, as well. And the house.”  
  
“Yes, well, his long-term memory loss generally isn’t as bad as the short term loss. He does recognize a lot of old names and places and faces, but introduce him to someone new and he doesn’t often retain it. But even with the past, everything’s a bit hit and miss.”  
  
Snape ignored her. He swept past, circling the sofa, the coffee table, the side table—all the while rubbing a hand on his chin. “He remembers you,” he mumbled again.  
  
“Sometimes.”  
  
“He remembers Weasley.”  
  
“Again, sometimes,” Hermione replied patiently.  
  
“He remembers Sirius Black.”  
  
“I did tell you that.”  
  
“He even remembers Lockhart,” Snape noted.  
  
“What are you getting at, if you don’t mind explaining?”  
  
Snape suddenly stopped, spinning to face the girl. “ _So why doesn’t he remember **me?** ”_  
  
Hermione gave this some thought. “You only just showed up again,” she suggested.  
  
“That doesn’t signify; you said yourself his short-term memory is worse than his long-term memory. Why doesn’t he remember things I did twenty years ago?”  
  
“He doesn’t remember _anything_ all the time,” Hermione argued. “It sort of comes and goes. And his short-term memory isn’t _too_ bad if he has a bit of a routine.”  
  
Snape stuck a finger in her face. “I have been with him _nonstop_ for a little more than a month now. I have even used Legilimency on him. Not _once_ has he given any indication that he ever knew a man called Snape. Doesn’t that strike you as a little bit unlikely?”  
  
Hermione looked deeply sceptical. “No. Not really. Not knowing Harry’s state of mind as I do.” Snape looked furious at this, but she held up a hand. “A month really isn’t very long. Not considering how long he’s been this way. And you might have missed something. It’s possible!” she added defensively when he snarled. “I suggest keeping a journal. Be scientific and logical about it. What does he remember and when? Who does he remember? What does he talk about? Date it. Put in times. Make sure you haven’t missed a thing. Give it—give it two weeks, and I’ll reconsider. Right now, Snape . . .”  
  
Snape stared at the girl—ha, _girl_ —she was now a brazen and confident woman, as implacable and immovable as a statue. And damn her, she had a point.  
  
“Right now, the evidence is insufficient,” she concluded.  
  
Harry came back just then, prancing into the room as if he owned the place. “Sorry; had to wash off the dish. Tea?” he asked. He had the tray and pot and had remembered cups and everything.  
  
“I’d like that very much,” Hermione told him, accepting a cup.  
  
Snape took one as well, and they all sat in the be-doilied front room, just like mice having a tea party. Ridiculous.  
  
“And are you enjoying it here, Harry? Are you making any progress?” Hermione asked.  
  
Harry smiled. It was a dazzling smile, a smile to light up a room. “Yes, very much,” Harry said. “Snape’s taught me Toothbrushing Brew.”  
  
“Has he? You’ve learned it?”  
  
Toothbrushing Brew was a very simple paste. A few steps, simple ingredients, nothing dangerous. They tried it each night and each morning. Snape thought Harry was perhaps getting the hang of it, but he wasn’t certain.  
  
“Sometimes I muck it up,” Harry admitted with no flagging cheer. “But I did it three times in the past couple of days. Crush mint, add whitening powder, put in two drops bundimun secretion, stir, then use on teeth!”  
  
“That’s _wonderful,_ Harry,” Hermione told him with a wide, white grin of her own.  
  
How toothy they all were.  
  
Snape settled back in his chair, absently sipping his tea while the two of them talked. Granger could say whatever she liked, but Snape wasn’t fooled, and he wasn’t imagining things.  
  
 _Why couldn’t Potter remember him?_  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
There was a knock on the front door. Snape glanced at the clock, seeing it was almost two. The interviewee was right on time, which boded well. He opened the door and stared. “You’ve _got_ to be joking,” he said flatly.  
  
The man stared back. “No. Or I would have said, ‘Knock, knock,’ instead of actually knocking. Or perhaps I would have said, ‘Why did the Potions Master fake his own death?’ I’m not sure I know the punchline, but I suspect _you_ do.”  
  
Snape felt an angry heat rise in his face. “Go the hell away,” he snarled. He made to slam the door, but found a foot stuck in the opening.  
  
“If you don’t want me contacting the papers and trumpeting your triumphant return, you should play nice. Anyway, I am actually interested.”  
  
Snape quietly seethed. “Fine. Come in if you must.” He stepped back, glowering at one of the few applicants for the job of assisting him with Potter. The man eyed the couch dubiously before taking a seat and giving him an unctuous smile. Snape sneered at him. “And what exactly are your qualifications for this job?” he challenged.  
  
The interviewee crossed his legs and smiled a quick, slick smile. “Well, I’m very good looking.”  
  
“And that’s a qualification to care for a mentally unbalanced former hero in what way?”  
  
There was a pause. “Heroes like shiny things. You’ll certainly find me easy on the eyes.”  
  
They heard a bang and Harry came running into the room. He’d had a minor meltdown earlier, suddenly convinced he was being poisoned and blasting the tea set to smithereens. Snape had doused him with Calming Draught—almost an irony, that—and then put the boy to bed to read, but it seemed as though that had worn off.  
  
He glared at them, his hair wild and his eyes even wilder. “ _Malfoy,_ ” he snarled. “Bring a friend because you’re too much a coward to kill me yourself?” he added. “Speaking of which, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”  
  
Snape harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest. Of course Potter had forgotten who he was again. But Draco jumped to his feet, beaming, and shook Harry’s hand, hard. “Potter, what an absolute joy. See, Snape, old boy? _He remembers me.”_  
  
 _Ugh._ Much as Snape hated to admit it, Draco had a point. It was more than Snape could say, at any rate.  
  
Harry looked absolutely baffled. “Why are you shaking my hand? Are we . . . are we friends now?”  
  
“ _Best_ friends,” Draco assured him syrupily.  
  
“Harry, be a dear and go get some biscuits for our guest,” Snape suggested. Harry did so, though not without many a puzzled, backward glance.  
  
Draco examined his nails with an air of smugness. “I also take dictation.”  
  
“I’ll be dead before I hire you.”  
  
“I thought you already were. What happened?” Draco asked.  
  
“I faked the whole thing and lived as a young, gorgeous blonde. And then Potter happened,” Snape explained grudgingly.  
  
“Well, I suppose I can empathize with wanting to be a young, hot blond. And now you’re wanting a ‘nurse?’ I’m afraid I don’t do costumes, I’m happily married and I may not be what you’re looking for, but I have to admit I’m intrigued.”  
  
“Don’t be stupid. I’m just looking for someone to make sure Potter doesn’t get into trouble when I’m not around.”  
  
“I can do that. He’s always been easily distracted,” Draco said.  
  
“Well . . . you _are_ the only candidate,” Snape sighed.  
  
“Seriously? I’m—the _only_ candidate?”  
  
Snape shrugged. “The only viable candidate. Of course, I only told the Weasleys and Fanny Farfingale about the position. I wasn’t sure how to word an ad— _‘Formerly dead Death Eater requires help with Boy Who Lived’_? I’m pretty sure I can guess the kind of response I’d get to that.”  
  
“Ha ha ha; _must bring own death ray?_ ” Draco suggested.  
  
“Yes, exactly. The only other person who even showed up was Neville Longbottom, and he took one look at me, turned white and passed out. I sprayed cold water on his face to rouse him and upon awakening, he grabbed the nearest object—a decorative urn—and started to bash me about the head, screaming about dark magic and how I could take his life, but I couldn’t take his fluxweed. With Potter’s help I eventually fought him off and tried to explain things, but he still seemed suspicious. To be frank, I can’t see hiring someone who might try to take my head off with an umbrella when my back is turned.”  
  
Draco nodded. “You really can’t blame him,” he said. “You were an absolute monster to him back at school. I think a lot of your former students might have done the same.”  
  
Snape smiled. At least he’d left an impression on _some_ of them. He had been good at swooping out of nowhere and deducting points, using his considerable grasp of the Queen’s English to make schoolchildren widdle themselves. Those _had_ been good days.  
  
Draco looked around the sitting room. “What a lovely place you have. It’s so . . . homely. I mean— _homey_. Cosy. You know.”  
  
For some reason, Snape felt a bit defensive. It definitely wasn’t up to Malfoy Manor standards. It was simple, the curtains damasked, chequered blue and white, the seats cosy old couches or cheerful wicker chairs and tables, all painted white, but all notched and dinged here and there; soldiers of the decorating campaigns they had seen over the years, the tried and true veterans who had stood the test of time, of the Great Moves, of the Rearrangement Of Which We Do Not Speak.  
  
But really, it was just a simple little house, thatched on top, with square windows looking out to sea. There was a funny little rocking chair that rocked all by itself. The whole place fairly screamed of doddering old aunt and uncle who’ve invited you for a nice cuppa and why don’t you tell them a bit about yourself? It was . . . cosy. Snape was gradually getting to like it, whatever Draco thought.  
  
“A bit different from what we’re used to, you and I, isn’t it?” Snape put in. “Back then it was all about showmanship. Curses that rent the air and set the sky on fire . . . a room stripped bare so all eyes would be on . . . him. . . . dark, ugly things—in jars, in books, in our very heads, all struggling to get out.”  
  
Draco shivered. “Things are different now,” he said too loudly. “After the war was over, I volunteered at St. Mungo’s. Well, it wasn’t exactly a choice. It was suggested very forcefully by the Ministry that the Malfoy clan make some sort of recompense and, rather than go to Azkaban, it was hinted community service might be an option. I think Potter may have been behind that, actually,” he said with a half smile. “And so I ended up at St. Mungo’s. Funny, but once I started, I was rather hooked.”  
  
“You were at St. Mungo’s? What an unlikely coincidence,” Snape replied in genuine surprise.  
  
Draco nodded, not noticing Snape’s look. “Research and development,” he said. “Mostly worked on potions for the immunization of childhood diseases.”  
  
This nearly knocked Snape back on his heels. Draco Malfoy? Working to save the world? Or at least make it a slightly less odious place? How did _that_ possibly work? The world was, Snape considered, rather more odious for Draco’s presence in it. “But you left.”  
  
Draco looked up. He shook his head a little. “What? No. Not exactly. Cutbacks. Temporary, supposedly.” He sighed, resting his chin in his hands. “They said they’ll call us back once things are sorted. Maybe. I can’t help but feel a former Death Eater might not be the first to get the owl.”  
  
“Indeed.” Snape gave this some thought. “But are you prepared to work in a non-research role? Certainly some research could be valuable, but much of what you’ll do will be tedious and undignified. I don’t need an academic. I need a nurse, a help-meet and a babysitter. I need someone to make sure that damn fool Potter doesn’t blow his own head off when I’m not looking. And the pay isn’t even very good,” Snape added anxiously. He didn’t have very much to give.  
  
Draco gave this consideration, tugging at a loose thread on the cuff of his robes. “To be honest—which I make it a point not to do, and it’s served me well—we’re not really all that hard up for money at the moment. But I’ve grown accustomed to having a job. And working at St. Mungo’s, well, I don’t suppose you’d really understand, but . . . that was the first time I really felt I’d done anything, well, good. Like I was contributing to society in my own small way. I know it sounds stupid, Snape— it’s not like I have this crazy urge to do good deeds. It’s more like doing good deeds has become . . . . some sort of bad habit I can’t break. Volunteering at St. Mungo’s was one of them,” he drawled.  
  
Snape blinked at him, unbalanced. “I think I understand,” he said weakly.  
  
Potter returned with the biscuits. “ _Malfoy_ ,” he snarled. “What are _you_ doing here? And you’ve brought a slimy friend, did you?”  
  
“Just came for your delectable biscuits,” Draco ad-libbed. “Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”  
  
The paranoia and curse-machine that was Harry Potter ground down. “You—wait—what?”  
  
Draco smiled, keeping eye contact. “You know—the fiendfyre. I wanted you to know I appreciate it, even if . . . even if Vincent didn’t make it. You gave me a second chance, and I’m here to repay you.”  
  
“Well. Er. I mean, I guess that’s all right,” Harry said, still suspicious, but the ice cold fury had clearly become a little wetter when put up against Draco’s passionate remorse. “Don’t . . . do it . . . again, though,” he warned. He rubbed his head a little. “I think I’m going to go lie down,” he told Snape, who nodded.  
  
Well, that was interesting. Draco had a wonderful talent for keeping Harry off balance.  
  
“What will my duties be?” Draco inquired.  
  
“Oh, just keep an eye on him,” Snape replied. “Watch out for mood changes, stay on top of conniption fits, keep a log of what he remembers when, feed him, make sure he’s wearing adequate clothing and not his underwear on his head, change his bedpan,” Snape extrapolated with a little glee.  
  
“Do I give sponge baths as well?’ Draco asked archly. “Or is that your job?”  
  
Snape hated that, after all these years, Draco still had the ability to ferret out that weak spot and then jab at it. “No. Just play nursemaid, if that isn’t too much to ask. And whatever issues you’ve had in the past, if I find the boy injured in your care, we shall have to inquire whether St. Mungo’s even has anyone skilled enough to remove a bedpan from one’s rear end. Is that clear?”  
  
“I DO NOT NEED BEDPANS, EVEN WHEN I’M HAVING A BAD TURN!” Harry’s voice roared. He was obviously still listening in, and incensed. “AND WHILE I’M NOT OPPOSED TO THE IDEA OF A SPONGE BATH, I’M NOT HAVING ONE FROM DRACO MALFOY. ALSO, I THINK I SHOULD GET A SAY IN ALL THIS!”  
  
Snape and Draco exchanged a look. “Well, have your say, then!” Snape shot back. “But though you dislike Mr. Malfoy, I did intend to run references on him. I certainly wouldn’t have let him in here without the appropriate background checks.”  
  
Harry was quiet a while. “I GUESS IT’S OKAY, THEN, SO LONG AS YOU TRUST HIM. BUT IF HE GETS ANYWHERE NEAR ME WITH A BEDPAN, I’LL GO UPSIDE HIS HEAD WITH SAID BEDPAN. UNDERSTOOD?”  
  
“Deal!” Draco shouted.  
  
Snape lowered his voice and leant in. “Are you positive you want to do this? Potter can be a handful and you never did get along well with him. And though you won’t be allowed to abuse your position, you may need to use a firm hand.”  
  
Draco gave him a salute. “Just call me Matron Malfoy,” he said with a bright eye.  
  
Snape sighed. “I suppose it could be worse. I can’t think how just at this moment, but I’m almost certain it could be worse.”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Snape Apparated into the front room, removed his dripping cloak and gave it a quick shake. It dried instantly and he Banished it to the closet. “I’m home,” he said shortly. It had been raining fit to drown fish all day, making his trip to Diagon Alley a dismal chore. And his polyjuice potion had worn off just before he’d Apparated. He hoped no one in the street had noticed.  
  
“Thank Merlin,” Draco grunted. He came down the hallway, holding a string. On closer examination, the string was attached to a broomstick floating behind him, on which sat one very pleased-with-himself Harry Potter.  
  
“And what have you devils been getting up to today?” Snape asked.  
  
“He’s driving me bloody mad!” Draco exclaimed. “First he made me read _Rikki-Tikki-Tavi_ aloud to him— _fifteen fucking times._ Then he decided he wanted an egg and cress but couldn’t remember how to make it. He wasted four eggs before I took them away from him and did it myself. And now _this._ ” Draco gestured in exasperation to his floating nemesis.  
  
“Potter, what’s wrong now?” Snape demanded.  
  
The boy gave him a tragic look. “I can’t remember how to use my legs,” he confessed.  
  
Draco scowled. “For the _last time_ , I refuse to believe that your little memory issue has in any way affected your ability to _walk!_ ”  
  
Snape arched a brow, drew his wand, and pointed it at Potter’s head. _“Densaugeo!_ ” he barked.  
  
Before the curse could do any damage, Potter leapt off the broomstick and ducked out of the way. He straightened, giving Snape an affronted look. “That was below the belt!” He brushed himself off haughtily and marched down the hall into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Snape ignored him, turning to the now-seething Draco. “You are too lenient,” he scolded. “He only did it to get up your nose. Ha, and I was worried you would be tormenting him the moment my back was turned. I suppose that’s what happens when you underestimate Potter.”  
  
Snape saw the warning signs; Draco was almost quivering with rage. White flecks of spittle clung to his lip. “ _He. Is—_ ”  
  
“No longer your problem for the day,” Snape intervened smoothly. “I thank you for your work and I’m sure there will be a note to St. Mungo’s describing your fortitude and compassion in the face of adversity.”  
  
Draco blinked, sagging against the sofa. Snape could see the little gears ticking over as Draco stared at nothing, contemplating. “A sort of commendation?” he said.  
  
Snape’s lips twitched in wry amusement. Draco might go on about how pure his motives were, but he loved the idea of everyone knowing how pure his motives were even more. “Yes, something like a commendation, I suppose.”  
  
“Fantastic! Eat that, parole Auror who told me I was so irredeemably evil I shouldn’t be allowed to buy a pair of socks on credit!” Draco went to slap Snape on the back, but when Snape glared at him, he stopped cold. “Oooh, the menacing stare at two paces—guess I’d better not.”  
  
“Indeed. Did you keep up with the log?” Snape asked. He went over to a side table where a musty old, leather-bound ledger book sat open.  
  
“Yes,” Draco said with a sigh. “It’s very tedious.”  
  
“Think of it as making a potion—attention to detail is important.” Draco had been a good student; he should understand that. And, in fact, he obviously did. For all his whinging, his neat scrawl listed, _10:00: Potter wants to know if I kidnapped Fanny. Remembers Fanny. When asked who the Minister of Magic is, peevishly informs me that it’s Lockhart and speculated my grandmother was a goat which copulated with itself to produce my father. 10:15: Potter thinks he has won a Quidditch game against Ravenclaw. Insists on celebrating with butterbeer. Cannot name year but says Cornelius Fudge is Minister of Magic. 11:45: Asks when “That bloke with the greasy hair is coming back. You’re getting dull.” Cannot recall name of bloke with greasy hair; does not know year or Minister of Magic. 12:00: Has temper tantrum, attempts to use wandless magic to remove my nose. Is given Calming Draught and biscuit and sent to corner to think about what he’s done._  
  
Draco looked over his shoulder. “It was a lovely day,” he said, sounding tired. “Need anything else from me?”  
  
“No,” Snape said absently, licking a finger and turning the page. “This is very good.”  
  
“Full marks? Can I tell my father I’m head of the class all over again?”  
  
“Mmm,” Snape replied, barely listening. “How is your father, by the way?”  
  
“. . . He’s been better,” Draco murmured. “Heart troubles,” he explained.  
  
“I didn’t know he had one. Sorry,” Snape added, seeing the look on Draco’s face.  
  
Draco stiffly retrieved his cloak and fastened it. “I should be getting home.”  
  
“I did _say_ I was sorry,” Snape told him. Which was a lot; he certainly wouldn’t have bothered twenty years ago.  
  
“I shouldn’t worry about it,” Draco replied. His voice still had a bit of an edge, but nonetheless he added, “I’ll be back tomorrow, same time, shall I?”  
  
Snape shook his head. “I’ll only need a few hours in the afternoon to work on my potions.”  
  
Shrugging, Draco said, “Owl me when you need me,” and left.  
  
Snape went back to perusing the ledger. _Cannot recall name of bloke with greasy hair._ He grunted in dissatisfaction and slammed the book shut, looking out the window. Rivulets of rain blocked the view, and between the bright fire in the grate and the overcast sky, all Snape could see was his disgruntled reflection.  
  
The log certainly didn’t seem very useful. Some of it was noteworthy, but other bits, say, _Potter committed a fashion felony— put on brown slacks and grey socks. Tried desperately to stop him, but he punched me repeatedly and accused me of being a slathering sock-thief_ , well . . . that wasn’t particularly enlightening.  
  
How was he ever going to make any headway when the patient in question couldn’t even remember how he’d got in such a ridiculous state?  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Snape opened the door before Ron could even knock. “Hurry up. Inside. I haven’t got all day.”  
  
Ron froze, fist upheld awkwardly. “Bloody hell, you could at least let me rap the door before you vivisect me.” He walked in, a bit loose-kneed and wary, looking about like someone might jump him.  
  
“Well, what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? Sit down,” Snape commanded.  
  
Ron did sit, but spoke before Snape could question him. “What the devil’s going on around here? You do realise that Harry is outside building sandcastles with Draco Malfoy?”  
  
Snape waved this away; it was of no import. “Yes, yes; I believe they found a conch shell to use as a door. They were quite excited about that. I certainly didn’t ask you here to discuss sandcastles. I brought you here to discuss Harry.”  
  
With a bitter half-smile, Ron shrugged. “The idea of Harry recovering _is_ a sandcastle. Built on a ruddy cloud. You haven’t made any progress at all.”  
  
Snape leant forward. “ _That’s because I haven’t the foggiest fucking idea what I’m supposed to be fixing,_ ” he snarled.  
  
Ron was taken aback. “Memory’s shot,” he said. “I did tell you that.”  
  
“But _why? How?_ Until I know that, it’s all a total waste of my time.”  
  
Ron shifted uncomfortably. “Well . . . what do you want me to do?”  
  
“You were thick as thieves back at school. You must know him better than anyone. When did it happen? What, exactly, happened?”  
  
Letting out a long, long breath, Ron shook his head. “I don’t rightly know. Hell, I wasn’t even in the country at the time. Hermione and I were on holiday in the States.”  
  
Snape dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. “You must know _something._ You must suspect something!”  
  
“Merlin, you’re putting a lot on me!” Ron sagged a little. “He and Ginny were having problems. Had been for a while. No, don’t ask me what! I don’t want to know whether my best mate didn’t please my sister in bed or something. I stayed out of it. But they were fighting a lot. They’d talked about a split, but they wanted to work it out for the kids. And Harry was just . . .not himself. I thought he was having a midlife crisis or something. Harry got a bit distant—with everyone—something seemed to be eating at him. Then apparently he went nuts. One last fight, then he leaves the house and goes back to Hogwarts. Maybe he was looking for something—I don’t know what. All I know is they found him wandering around, not knowing his name or anything else. He looked totally gonzo, I heard. Big, empty eyes, drooling, the works. He got better after that, but not by much.”  
  
“That’s _all_ you know?” Snape cried, incredulous. The boys had been inseparable in school! It was difficult to believe Potter had run headlong into some unknown danger without Weasley knowing anything about it.  
  
“Look, you’re fishing in the wrong hole. You want to know what happened, you ought to talk to the Healers. They’re the ones who diagnosed him. Not to mention treated him and all that.”  
  
Snape rubbed his face. “I’ve spoken to Fanny, but it’s a dead end. The diagnosis isn’t the same thing as the impetus. I have no _cause_. Damn it all, even the diagnosis is shaky—it’s a guess, not a fact.”  
  
“You might try Hermione,” Ron suggested.  
  
“You just said she was out of the country at the time—with you!”  
  
“Yes, but she’s a lot cleverer than I am, and she loves solving puzzles.”  
  
Snape made a peevish sort of noise. “He’s your best friend. He’s also the indisputable hero of all the Wizarding world. He tells the Daily Prophet that he likes a bit of vanilla in his tea and vanilla sales go through the roof. They take his picture for the Quibbler and he blushes in it, a thousand mad worshippers swoon and proceed to wallpaper their domiciles with his face. His marriage is failing. He’s growing aloof. Then he _pops off to Hogwarts for no discernable reason, loses his sodding mind and comes out drooling, and **not a single person noticed until it was all over?”** _ Snape threw his hands in the air. “Where was the press? Where were the masses of adoring girls?”  
  
“And boys,” Ron pointed out.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Plenty of boys in the mix. One bloke turned up in a restaurant one night and wanted Harry to autograph his arse cheek. It was an equal-opportunity insanity,” Ron explained.  
  
Snape rolled his eyes. “Thank you for that undoubtedly vital clue, Watson,” he sneered.  
  
“Weasley,” Ron corrected, oblivious. “Anyway, where were you? If we all have a responsibility to follow Harry around and make sure he doesn’t degenerate into a loony, why weren’t you there? You were the person who was the most obsessed with catching him out when he was getting into trouble.”  
  
Snape’s face felt hot. He certainly wasn’t going to say, ‘I was gallivanting about in a short skirt and borrowed breasts, hoping the fit young blokes would follow me about, for once.’ Instead he cleared his throat. “Have I not given you blasted imbeciles enough of my time? Are you owed every spare second for the rest of my life? Can you not look out for yourselves at this point?”  
  
“Obviously not,” Ron said triumphantly. “’Cause the first time you turned your back, Harry went and lost his marbles. It’s entirely your fault.”  
  
Snape gave up. He’d never get anything useful out of a Weasley, anyway. “Very well. I’ll speak with . . . is she your girlfriend? Gadding about stateside while your best friend has a total nervous breakdown? She’d better be _something,_ at that point.”  
  
Ron looked huffy. “She is and has been my _wife,_ Snape.”  
  
Snape tried not to look too doubtful. “I see. Well. I’m not one to judge. The poor girl,” he added, though quietly. Ron shot him a dirty look. “At any rate, send her round for biscuits and tea and brainstorming, and tell her to remember to bring some biscuits and tea. Potter likes vanilla.”  
  
“Ugh,” was all Ron said as he got up and tramped toward the door, refusing to look back.  
  
Hermione Granger might actually have some insight or ideas about how to cure Potter. She was the only one of the Insufferable Trio to have two braincells to rub together, at any rate.  
  
Snape followed Ron to the door. “Draco? Harry? It’s time to come in. Let’s get washed up and I’ll treat you to a nice dinner.”  
  
Draco seemed cheerful enough as he led Harry up the steps, but Harry greeted Snape with a flat, “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”  
  
That was a new one. He could remember living in the _cottage_ but couldn’t remember _Snape?_ This had to be some horrible little prank of God. Spend half your life saving his, and the other half with him not even knowing who you are?  
  
All Snape knew was that, if he had to continue to live with that horrible expression of insolent ignorance on Harry’s face, day after day, he would have to take drastic measures to wipe it off.  
  
It was as bad as it had been at the school.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
“He’s here!”  
  
Snape stiffened. “Fine. Let him in. Give him what he wants. Get him out as soon as possible.”  
  
Draco made a judgmental little noise. “Let’s not be like this. He misses his daddy.”  
  
“Oh, and how would _you_ know?”  
  
“Scorpius, not allowed to see me for months?” Draco said. “He’d miss me. We’re very close, you know.”  
  
“I heard he tried to disown you last year and change his name to Smith.”  
  
Draco snorted. “The kids at school were teasing him a bit, that’s all. He got over it. A son needs his father.”  
  
“Ha. He is not a Gryffindor.”  
  
“A Gryffindor still loves his father,” Draco predicted.  
  
When Snape opened the door, Al didn’t look too much like he needed his daddy, not just right this minute. He scowled at Snape like a little ruffian.  
  
“Come in,” Snape instructed.  
  
Albus Severus ducked his head but came in, shy and awkward and sullen right until Harry saw him.  
  
“Al! Al, what are you going here? It’s so good to see you! You grow every time,” he said.  
  
And Al, suddenly a child, threw his arms around Harry as though he could keep Harry there, not just physically, but as though he could catch _everything_ and keep it there, keep it safe, just for a moment.  
  
Snape stumbled back, knowing he was intruding in the worst possible way.  
  
Harry beamed and ruffled Al’s hair.  
  
“Missed you,” Al grunted.  
  
Harry blinked a little. Snape could see almost see the gears in his head grinding, the recognition fading.  
  
“We’ve got a board game set up,” Draco interrupted. “I’m excited to play.” He was quick on the uptake.  
  
Father and son looked reluctant, but followed Draco to the coffee table. “Are you certain this is wise?” Snape asked in an undertone.  
  
“Positive,” Draco insisted.  
  
Snape sat at his desk, watched out of the corner of his eye and made the occasional note, but he had research to do. One potion seemed promising, and he flipped open his copy of _Modern Quantum Potions_ to see if he could find it. He was quickly absorbed, only surfacing when the laughter got too loud or there was dispute about a rule.  
  
A quarter of an hour passed like nothing at all.  
  
Albus Severus rolled the dice and moved his broom. It landed on a ‘pick a card’ box, so he did, reading, “‘ _Lose a turn.’_ Oh, for—” He slumped in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. “Your turn,” he said, pouting.  
  
Draco sighed and rolled the dice, then moved his broom three spaces. “Your turn, Harry,” he said. “Do you remember what we’re doing? We’re playing cardboard Quidditch. Now you roll the dice and—”  
  
“Oh, shut up,” Harry said loudly. “I do know how to play.” He rolled the dice, moving his little hovering firebolt a few spaces and setting it beside Al’s. “Oh, good, I get a card, too!” Only instead of pulling one from the deck, he got one out of his lap. “ _Opposing goaltender hit by Quaffle; move forward two spaces.”_  
  
“Da-ad,” Albus Severus protested. “I’ve told you a million times that you’re not allowed to do that!”  
  
“Did you just _cheat?_ ” Snape looked up from his writing, appalled and slightly amused. Potter was a wretch and a hothead and an idiot and a rather nice hunk of meat, but he’d never been a cheat before.  
  
“Hypocrite,” Draco said with a laugh.  
  
“That’s not in evidence,” Snape replied swiftly. “And anyway, it’s out of character for Potter.”  
  
Albus Severus, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed. “With my dad, all’s fair in love and Quidditch,” he said with an eye roll. They went back to playing, settling in to the game that Harry Potter would not stand to lose. Draco and Albus Severus were swept up in it, their orbits transformed by the gravity of Harry Potter.  
  
No one—outside of Snape—accused him of cheating. Potter won the game handily. Snape could hardly believe it. Potter was a saint. Potter did not cheat, or did not get caught cheating. But everyone played along.  
  
Later, while Draco and Harry took the tea cups into the kitchen, Al cleared the game board.  
  
Snape coughed. He hadn’t thought to prepare any questions before the visit, but it occurred to him that this was a good opportunity to find out what the boy knew. “You come to visit him often?” he asked.  
  
Al shrugged. “We all did, in hospital. But my mum wanted him to get settled in here before we started up again, in case it caused him stress or something. Even then, she only wants us going one at a time until she’s sure he can handle it.”  
  
“Did he usually remember you, when you visited?”  
  
“Not bloody likely,” Al said with a snort. “Sometimes he remembers James, and once in a while he remembers me or Lily. But usually he thinks we’re a hospital volunteer come to keep him company.”  
  
Snape’s brow furrowed. “What is it like when he remembers you? What does he say?”  
  
Al got a strange look. “It’s like—he’s like—nothing much,” he choked out. “For a little while, he actually knows, that’s all. He says, _Al,_ and sometimes, _How are you,_ and it’s just like—for just a moment—everything’s like it used to be.” Al turned away, rubbing at his face in embarrassment.  
  
This wasn’t helpful. He was putting a little boy through hell, and for what? He was never going to make progress this way. “Well, he never remembers me at _all_ ,” Snape grumped.  
  
“Thank Merlin for small favours,” Al grumped right back at him. “At least he doesn’t go _on_ about you anymore.”  
  
Snape was surprised by this. “He went on about me?”  
  
“What, the _bravest man he ever knew?_ ” Al said sarcastically. “I was lucky if I _didn’t_ hear it ten times a day.”  
  
Snape’s face heated. He had known Potter named the boy after him, but he hadn’t really thought about its significance. To his surprise, he found the tribute embarrassing. “You can go,” he said.  
  
“Gee, thanks for your _permission,_ ” Al sneered.  
  
Snape pinned his ungrateful namesake with a glare. “You _ought_ to ask my permission, considering what I’ve done for you.”  
  
Al tossed the rest of the pieces in the box and slammed it shut. “Yeah, _thanks. Thank you,_ almighty dead bloke who I’ve never seen before in my life. Thank you for dropping dead and making my dad a big hot mess and thanks for coming _back_ from the dead just when we were getting used to things, and stealing my dad from his nice, safe room in St.Mungo’s, and thanks again for totally bollixing everything up. _Thanks!_ ”  
  
Snape was completely taken aback. “What?”  
  
“He was safe! He was okay! He wasn’t getting better, but he wasn’t getting worse. And now he’s here. _My dad_ ,” Al managed to growl. “And now I even have to ask permission to see him. Not like even bloody visiting hours.”  
  
Snape shrank back. “It’s not like that.”  
  
“It’s been _two months_ since you stole my dad,” Albus Severus said plaintively. “I know he’s not the dad he could have been, but he’s still _my dad._ And you took him.”  
  
Snape nodded gravely. “I think I understand. I apologize. I had no apprehension of your distress—or of the complicated nature of the family issues. You are welcome to visit him. If he’s having a bad turn, I’ll have to send you away, but certainly you’re welcome to see him more often than every few months.”  
  
“Yeah, right,” was all Al would grant.  
  
Snape dragged a hand through his long, dark hair. “I know you can’t understand it, but I am trying to help him!” he said.  
  
Al leapt to his feet, trembling and furious. “Well, _I’m the one who loves him!_ And what do you want? What are you after? _Why my dad?”_  
  
How could Snape explain? There had always been a link, but it was such an ethereal link that it seemed ridiculous to try to explain. “He needs me,” he said feebly. “He’s always needed me. And he needs me now and _damn it,_ I will see he gets what he needs!”  
  
Al turned away, crossing his arms over his chest. “Whatever,” he mumbled mutinously.  
  
Suddenly Snape had a powerful recollection of Harry looking exactly the same way—belligerent and sulky and frustratingly and wilfully young. The image of Harry Potter, angry and sure Snape was evil incarnate, was indelibly printed on Snape’s brain. And yet depressingly, Harry Potter himself had no such memory at all.  
  
Snape turned to see Harry hovering in the doorway, looking at him with raised eyebrows. What were Snape’s sacrifices _worth_ if this man, of all people, did not remember them?  
  
Snape looked back at the boy: his namesake—the only real appreciation he was ever shown. He looked so very like his father. He, at least, would not forget Snape, even if he hated the man and blamed him for taking his father away. Suddenly, Snape felt moved again to comfort the boy. He reached out and patted the boy’s head, then brushed Al’s fringe back from his face very gently, somewhat disappointed that the trademark scar was not there. Al started a little bit, but didn’t pull away. He just looked at Snape with round, green eyes. Lily’s eyes.  
  
“Everything is going to be all right,” Snape told him firmly. “I will make things better. I promise you. I’ve never broken a promise to him, and I’ll never break a promise to you,” he added.  
  
Al looked uncertain before nodding. “All right,” he agreed. “But Snape?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“If you ever pat me on the head again, I swear I’ll hex your balls off.”  
  
Snape laughed gruffly. “Try it, young Potter. I was more than a match for your father, and I’m more than a match for you.”  
  
Al left, still grumbling.  
  
Snape smiled as he watched the boy go. So the relationship he had with Albus Severus was not remarkably less antagonistic than what he’d had with Harry—but there was a certain comfort in familiarity.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
First thing the next morning, Snape owled Draco to come over and watch Harry. He arrived looking a bit rumpled, his eyes squinty.  
  
“Dear God, are you some kind of barbarian?” Draco asked. “It’s barely gone six. Who gets up and runs errands at six in the morning?”  
  
“A former schoolteacher,” Snape snapped.  
  
“Well, Miss Mary Sunshine, I bet you’d be in a better mood all round if you didn’t get up at the arse-end of night, and waited until the sun actually rose.”  
  
Snape ignored him. “This is important, and I’m not wasting any further time.” Before Draco could say another word, Snape was out the door.  
  
“Where are you going?” Draco shouted after him.  
  
“I have questions. And I also have an answer or two, but they led to more questions. So I’m off to get a carton of milk and as many answers as I can carry.”  
  
“But when will you be back? And where’s Potter?”  
  
“Potter’s still asleep, and I don’t know,” Snape replied curtly. He grabbed up his broom and headed north.  
  
Snape didn’t realise what he’d done wrong until he was storming through the Atrium, a man on fire. He had questions, damn it, and he would not be denied. But then the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand up, and he sensed a sea-change in the great mass of people around him. Previously they, too, had been in a hurry to get somewhere, but now they were all slowing, milling about him. Everyone was looking at him.  
  
He stopped in front of the security stand, feeling absolutely as flummoxed as the guard there looked. Somehow, what with the Weasleys and Draco and Hermione all knowing about him, he’d managed to completely forget that he was still long dead as far as the rest of the world was concerned. He always did his Polyjuice when he went to buy potions ingredients, but in the excitement about Potter it had just slipped his mind. All the important people already knew. Snape wondered when he’d begun considering the Weasley clan and Hermione Granger-Weasley _important_ , anyway.  
  
Snape swallowed as he and the guard stared at each other. “I’m here to see Hermione Granger-Weasley,” he said. He lifted his chin. “My name is Severus Snape,” he said, and thrust his wand at the man.  
  
The guard immediately dropped to the floor, covering his head with his hands. “Don’t shoot! I surrender!”  
  
“I . . . thought you needed to check my wand,” Snape said stiffly. The crowd around him was muttering and moving, ebbing and flowing at the edges as people ran to tell their friends or as new people showed up to gawk.  
  
“It’s a costume,” someone at his elbow said. “It’s not really Severus Snape. You’re not really Snape. You can’t be,” he told Snape. “Severus Snape had a bigger nose than that.”  
  
Snape did not have a ready retort. He stared at the man. “And who do you claim to be?” he demanded.  
  
The man puffed up. “Owen Cauldwell, sir. Don’t you remember me? You would, if you were really Severus Snape. Severus Snape used to teach me potions.”  
  
“You can’t be Owen Cauldwell,” Snape said nastily, raising his wand.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Owen Cauldwell didn’t have two black eyes.”  
  
Before Snape could follow through on this oblique threat, he heard someone roar, “SEVERUS SNAPE!” and looked up to see Hermione bearing down on him. Her hair was all swept up into a bun, but her robes were billowing impressively. “CLEAR THE WAY,” she ordered.  
  
The masses of people tried to clear the path, leaving Snape at the centre of a quickly widening circle.  
  
Snape did his best to regain his wits and his dignity, and offered Hermione a sweeping bow. “Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” he said. “I deliver myself into your capable hands.” So saying, he held out his wand and dropped it into her palm.  
  
The tone of the whispers all around him shifted from tension to relief.  
  
“ _Quietus,_ ” Hermione said, touching her own wand to her neck. In a lower voice she continued, “What on earth are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me in advance? Your sudden appearance is going to cause me _such_ a lot of paperwork.”  
  
“Apologies. Is there somewhere more private we could go?”  
  
“Practically anywhere,” Hermione said with an eye-roll. She turned on her heel and motioned for him to follow. “You always did like the dramatic entrance, didn’t you?”  
  
“It was unintentional, I assure you. If I were going for dramatic, I would have worn long, inky robes that swirled at my feet and rippled and surged at the slightest breath of air. And I probably would have used a comb.”  
  
Hermione stopped briefly to tell the guard he was fired before leading Snape back to her office.  
  
“Can you do that?” he asked. “Fire the guard, just like that?”  
  
“I can do anything; I’m the chief of police.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m the second in command at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Hermione explained with a sigh. She led him into a large office, where she had an even larger desk, all walnut and neatly stacked paperwork and quill and ink lined up just so. There were several framed pictures of her children, some on her desk, some on bookshelves behind her—in what little space wasn’t covered by actual books. She gestured for Snape to take a seat. “Now, what was it you wanted?”  
  
“I needed to talk to you. It was imperative.”  
  
Hermione sighed. “About what?”  
  
“Harry.”  
  
“With you, everything is.”  
  
Snape experienced an uncomfortable moment, feeling a bit as though he’d walked out without remembering to dress. “What?”  
  
“Well, I mean, I wouldn’t expect it to be anything else. What else have we to talk about?”  
  
“Oh. Yes . . . though come to think of it I would rather like to know what happens next, er, that is, now that everyone knows I’m still alive. Are there charges against me?”  
  
“I’ll look into it. There were any number of hearings and depositions after Voldemort fell and Harry did his best to publically clear you, but one would think your having assumed someone else’s identity muddies things just a bit. I expect we’ll have to clear you all over again,” Hermione mused. “You may want to speak to the press—good public relations at this early stage would probably help negate the actions of any overzealous people who still consider you evil,” she suggested.  
  
“I’ll take it under advisement.”  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
Snape hesitated. “Did you _know_ Potter was bisexual?”  
  
“Do you think it has any bearing on his condition?”  
  
“I’m . . . unsure. I don’t think it does, but it came as a shock.”  
  
“If you’re too much of a prude to take care of him, I’ll arrange to have him returned to St. Mungo’s,” Hermione told him. But even though her face registered no emotion, there was a warning in her eyes.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Snape brushed the implication away with a wave of his hand. “But I feel I don’t have the whole picture of who Harry was when this happened. Did he really never act on his urges?”  
  
Hermione looked away. “To my knowledge, he did not. We only spoke about it once, many years ago. Something about a Quidditch Keeper he rather fancied. He joked that he’d switch teams for the boy. Harry quite fancied him. I took him aside later and asked if he was comfortable in his decision to marry Ginny. This was not long after the wedding, you understand. He frowned and said something—I can’t quite recall now. But he indicated he was very happy with Ginny, he just wondered sometimes if he hadn’t rushed into marriage a bit. I told him he could always talk to me, but we never discussed it again. As far as I know, it was happy ever after ever since.”  
  
“He was having troubles with his wife—near the time of the incident. Do you know what it was all about?”  
  
Hermione looked unsure. “Ginny was very private about all that. She was adamant that their marriage was a personal issue and not up for discussion.”  
  
“So it _might_ have become a problem,” Snape suggested.  
  
“Or maybe Harry turned into a radioactive ogre Thursday nights for no apparent reason and it caused friction. It’s not just a guess, Snape, it’s a pretty wild guess.”  
  
“Possibly,” Snape admitted. He rubbed his chin. “Any further thoughts?”  
  
Hermione considered him for a long moment. “To be honest, I always thought Harry was attacked. It never crossed my mind he might have done it to himself. But as time went on and no one came forward and no clues were revealed, it only became more of a mystery. I did always wonder what he was doing at Hogwarts at the time. He had no reason to be there that I know of.”  
  
“Thank you,” Snape told her. He stood up. “As long as I’ve got nothing else to go on, that might as well be my last stop.”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
But after two hours of searching Hogwarts, he was no closer to figuring anything out. He’d had tea with Minerva and gone through Gryffindor tower top to bottom. “I don’t think I’ve learnt a thing,” Snape told the Headmistress, “Except for the fact that Gryffindors have absolutely horrid taste in decorating. All this red—my eyes are ready to bleed!”  
  
“Well, you must realise that since the original tower was all but destroyed during the war, we had to rebuild pretty much from scratch.”  
  
Snape looked at Minerva askance. “And who chose Laceration Red for the walls?”  
  
“I believe the students voted. It was an equitable and democratic choice and I applaud their fair-mindedness, if not their taste,” Minerva informed him.  
  
“Ha! Spoken like a true Gryffindor. Though in words of more than one syllable, so perhaps not quite.”  
  
“I had Hermione Granger. You had Gregory Goyle. Wizards in glass castles shouldn’t throw curses.”  
  
“Touché,” Snape agreed, looking at the woman with deep admiration.  
  
“Will you be coming back to teach, then?” she asked as they made their way downstairs.  
  
“Am I invited?” Snape said in surprise.  
  
“There’d be a probationary period to see whether you killed me and cast my lifeless body from the tops of any towers, but I dare say you’ve got it out of your system,” she replied dryly. At the look Snape gave her, Minerva added, “Potter did tell everyone what happened. It’s difficult not to hold you at least partially responsible, but I know we all did the best we could.”  
  
“Yes, we did. Thank you.”  
  
“Not that I’ll be accompanying you down any dark alleys in the future, and if you ever did try anything funny, I’d smack you down very hard indeed,” Minerva reminded him.  
  
Snape smiled. “Perhaps I’ll return when I’ve cured Potter. _If_ I manage to cure Potter,” he amended. “Can you think of no reason the boy might have come here?”  
  
Minerva tilted her head, considering. “Nostalgia, perhaps? It’s closer to a home than he ever had before.”  
  
Snape snorted.  
  
“Well, potions ingredients, perhaps. Or something similar. We do house many rare magical items for the purposes of instruction,” Minerva pointed out.  
  
“Now _that’s_ a thought. I’m already aware of at least a few times Potter raided my supplies. Maybe the memory loss was just some unexpected side-effect to an ill-made potion! Do you mind if I look around the dungeons?”  
  
“Don’t interrupt the classes,” Minerva warned him. “I should get back to work.”  
  
“Right. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”  
  
“I’m still in the same office,” she told him.  
  
Snape stopped partway down the dungeon stairs. “You aren’t in the Headmaster’s office?” he called back in surprise.  
  
Minerva paused just long enough to make a face. “I’m not one to put on airs. Anyway, it had so many unhappy memories there at the end. To be honest, I put it off limits to the students. I meant to open it back up eventually, but I haven’t thought of the place in years. I’m sure it’s a dust trap by now,” she added.  
  
Snape nodded absently. He had no doubt his old office was the same. Of course, dust could only _add_ to the ambiance of all the dead things floating in jars. Spider webs couldn’t hurt, either. He’d chosen a decorating theme that only got better with age.  
  
Sadly, someone had cleaned out his old dungeon office. It was tidy and orderly, and whether Potter had come here or not, Snape would never be able to tell. Deflated, he returned to the hall just as class let out and a steady stream of children washed over him. They were all elbows and loud voices no matter how hard he glared. It was obvious no one knew him. They wouldn’t have _dared_ otherwise.  
  
“ _No running in the halls,_ ” he snarled. “And you! Put that rat away!”  
  
Everyone began to edge away, looking nervous. At least it was a bit quieter. Snape smiled grimly. He still had it.  
  
“If you’ve come to pick up your stuff, it’s all gone,” someone informed him. Snape turned to find Albus Severus looking at him expectantly.  
  
“You know this how?”  
  
“Dad got all of it. Everything from Hogwarts and everywhere else, too. Dad made a bid on it years and years ago when they were auctioning off your old house and everything in it. He brought loads of it back home—the books and stuff mostly—and he used to show it to us and talk about you.”  
  
Snape was pole-axed. “He did?”  
  
Al rolled his eyes. “It was kind of a collection or something. Dad used to say other people collected Chocolate Frog cards, but he collected Snape. He didn’t talk about anything else for months. It was always ‘Snape’ this and ‘Snape’ that, and how brilliant Snape was, and look at this spell he came up with, and wasn’t he soooooo clever? He was absolutely bonkers about that old stuff. But anyway it’s all gone now; I think Mum must have thrown it out years ago after Dad went loony.”  
  
Snape stared at him, unseeing. He hadn’t bothered about Spinner’s End or trying to get his things because he didn’t dare to—and didn’t care to. It was just a load of old junk. He hadn’t imagined anyone would want it.  
  
“Your mum threw it all out,” Snape muttered.  
  
“Yeah, I think so. She’d always said it was a load of old junk and she hated every bit of it,” Al replied cheerfully.  
  
An idea occurred to him. “Thank you. That might have been just what I needed,” Snape told him, and joined the throngs of children going upstairs.  
  
“Who is _that?_ ” he heard one of Albus Severus’ classmates whisper loudly.  
  
“Just some bloke who used to teach my dad when he was a kid,” Al said.  
  
“What’s he doing here?”  
  
“I don’t think even he knows. He might be brave, but I don’t think he’s very smart,” Al said.  
  
At this point, Snape couldn’t even protest. He’d being going at this from entirely the wrong direction—the _stupid_ direction. It was time to do it right.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Ginny answered her door wearing a muddy jersey of some sort—it looked like some sort of sporting uniform. “What are you doing here?” She looked at Snape with great distaste.  
  
“Have you had some terrible accident?” he asked, hoping that if she had, it wouldn’t slow things down too much.  
  
“No, my face always looks like this,” she responded archly.  
  
“What? I—mean—about your running about in filth and dirt. Is this normal for you? I assume it’s not how you dress about the house _usually_ , is it?”  
  
“No, Snape. I was just getting back from practice,” she said, sound a bit winded. “Quidditch practise?” she added at the blank look on his face. “I play for the Holyhead Harpies,” she prompted, when she still hadn’t elicited a response.  
  
“Oh,” Snape managed. He didn’t do small talk. “I need to have a word with you about your husband.”  
  
“Come in, then, if you really must.” Ginny stepped back and Snape followed her into the foyer. It was a lovely house, tastefully decorated but still warm, and not too fancy. “Ex-husband,” Ginny corrected with a crooked smile. “The papers were finalized a few days ago. Do you have news about Harry?”  
  
“It was me, wasn’t it?” Snape asked quietly.  
  
Ginny’s whole body tensed, her face turning quite white. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.  
  
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t lie to me. Or do I have to look through _your_ memories to confirm my suspicions? It was _me_. I’m the missing puzzle piece—the only thing he absolutely cannot remember under any circumstances. _I’m_ what happened to Harry.”  
  
Ginny sort of deflated into a chair. “That’s an apt description. Yes, you happened to Harry,” she admitted.  
  
He leaned forward to squeeze her shoulders hard. “ _Tell me._ ”  
  
She shook her head. “What’s there to say? He was obsessed with you. It didn’t seem like a big issue at first—he just had some of your old writings. He thought they were very interesting. Then they were auctioning off all the stuff in your old house, and he got very upset. You know how sentimental he is. He said he didn’t understand why no one wanted it, how everyone could just throw it away.”  
  
Snape blinked, his grip loosening. “ _I_ didn’t even want it,” he said. “It was a load of old rubbish, anyway.”  
  
Ginny laughed harshly. “That’s what I said, but he wouldn’t listen. He went through all your old writings. He found letters his mum had sent you, and letters from other people, too. He said it was,” her face twisted, “ _important_ that you weren’t forgotten.”  
  
Snape was beginning to understand. He gingerly took a seat across from her. “Sometimes it’s better to bury the dead.”  
  
Ginny laughed again. “Not for Harry.” She looked away. “He had a whole _room_ full of your things. It was so _creepy_. It was like a shrine. I didn’t mind Al’s name—or Lily’s—or James’ . . . but after a while, after it all added up, I did start to mind. Quite a bit. It’s just . . . Harry doesn’t let go of the past very well. He doesn’t like change, and he has trouble adjusting. Things got worse after the kids went away to school.”  
  
Snape tapped his lips. “Really?”  
  
She glowered at him. “He changed. And it was _your fault._ He was the sweetest boy I ever knew, and you—did something. I don’t know what! You were all he thought about! You were all he talked about! He was all right until he found your writings, and then he changed. You were so _interesting_ ,” she spat. “I couldn’t even get him to put your journal down to go to sleep.”  
  
“My journal?” Snape echoed in horror. He’d thought that, at least, would be safe. He’d even encoded it so that it read like a musty tome on the history of goblin hygiene. But either Harry had broken the protective charms or, more likely, they had simply expired. “That was supposed to be personal,” he mumbled.  
  
“It was certainly personal! All that—that— _stuff_ about how you struggled with your sexuality! I could see it changing him!” Ginny said, her voice climbing in distress. “And he stopped—and we—stopped—” She couldn’t finished the sentence. When she regained control she said, “I told him it had to stop. It _had_ to stop. He absolutely refused to listen! I told him again and again how he was ruining everything, that he was alienating his kids and not being there for his family, but he just wouldn’t stop!”  
  
“And so you fought about it.”  
  
Ginny shook her head, her face red and blotchy and angry. “We must have had a hundred fights over it. And finally I gave him an ultimatum. I told him it was you or me. And if he didn’t stop thinking about you, I’d divorce him. So he—he went and—” Ginny began to cry, hard. “I don’t know _what_ he did.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me in the first place?”  
  
“Tell you what? I don’t even know what happened. And do you have any idea how humiliating it was? How humiliating this _is?_ ”  
  
“You should have told me!” Snape insisted. “Didn’t you realise what it meant—what he must have done?”  
  
“No, I _didn’t_ realise,” Ginny told him. She looked away. “It wasn’t as though you were our _only_ problem. We were fighting about other things, too. He hated that I had to travel for my job, and he said he was lonely and starting to feel confused about—about—”  
  
“His sexuality,” Snape guessed.  
  
“Yes. To be honest,” Ginny started to cry again, “I thought maybe he tried to k-kill himself, and just botched it.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t you dare apologise to me!” Ginny blew her nose. “I can’t stay properly angry if you apologise. Anyway, I’m as angry with him as I am with myself—and with you. He was just so— _stupid._ He never listened!”  
  
“If it helps, I’m sure he never meant for all this to happen. And while he may have been obsessed with me—or the person he thought I was from my writings—he _chose you_. He simply had . . . an accident. I think he tried to forget me and took it a bit too literally—and a little too far, as well.”  
  
This didn’t stop the girl’s tears. “Then tell me who to blame, Snape,” she choked out. “Because it isn’t fair. It just isn’t fair and I could really use someone to be good and angry with and possibly throw a—couple of curses and pots at,” she hiccupped.  
  
Snape was not really at home with tears and wasn’t sure what to do. It had been many years since he made his students cry on a regular basis. He cleared his throat. “Well, I will valiantly play the villain if you need someone in the role; I’m quite used to it,” he offered. “I’ll even throw in a ‘ _Muwahahaha_ ’ if it will help at all.”  
  
Ginny laughed and conjured a handkerchief to blow her nose. “I’m getting too old for this sort of nonsense,” she said with a sigh. “Poisonous jealousy and emotional volatility are better suited to teenagers and other idiots.”  
  
Snape shrugged. “Maybe it’s because I’m not the height of emotional maturity, but they’ve always worked for me. And I’d be quite happy to exchange insults and hexes with you if it will be a catharsis.”  
  
Ginny giggled, her dimple still wet from tears. “Okay,” she said. “I always wanted to tell you what I really think of you. You’re mean. Even though you do good things. You’re cruel and spiteful and ugly. You’re a—homewrecker, and a floozy, and a—a person of questionable morals!”  
  
“While my homewrecking was unintentional and my attempt to be a floozy was wholly unsuccessful, I will admit I am a person of questionable morals,” Snape allowed, somewhat amused. “In fact, that might be the best and most succinct description I’ve ever been given.”  
  
Ginny looked at him. “Your turn,” she said. “You have to insult me back. Truth or dare, hex or insult—take your pick!”  
  
“Ah, Gryffindor even-handedness again,” Snape murmured. “Well, it’s difficult, because I really don’t know you. You were never anything to me, which I suppose is an insult in itself. But I do feel you did yourself a disservice by marrying that brat. You’re a—you’re a second fiddle who could have been a first fiddle if you hadn’t fiddled about with Potter!”  
  
Ginny laughed. “It might be true,” she allowed.  
  
Snape sighed. “You’re easy to dislike,” he said. “You’re lovely and bright and you married a handsome hero and had his children—and all I ever got were your rather muddled leftovers. You’ve no reason to go envying me,” he pointed out.  
  
Ginny seemed surprised by this. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, then looked down at the twisted handkerchief in her lap. “You know, I think we both focus too much on Harry,” she said quietly. “We should fight over something more sensible, like Quidditch teams.”  
  
Snape gave a sharp laugh. “Quidditch teams _are_ rather more sensible than Potter. Of course, clods of dirt are more sensible than Potter.”  
  
Smiling, Ginny said, “I’m glad you stopped by. It was good to get that all out. I haven’t talked about it for years.” She looked wistful. “I never really talked about it at all.”  
  
Snape knew his cue when he heard it, and rose to his feet. “I’m glad I did as well. Perhaps now I’ll be able to fix things.” He looked at her. “What will you do now?”  
  
She shrugged. “I’m mostly over Harry. You never forget your first, but . . . I’m getting married in just a couple of weeks. I have a new man and, well, new interests.”  
  
“Such as?” Snape asked as she walked him to the door.  
  
Ginny gave him a mischievous look. “Perhaps I’ll learn how to play the fiddle.”  
  
As Snape reached the front door, Ginny stuck out her hand. “Truce?”  
  
“But I didn’t even know we were enemies until today,” Snape protested. He felt unaccountably let down. “I’d hate to lose an enemy before I even had the chance to get to know them.” She’d have made a good enemy, too—she had a mean bat-bogey hex, but no real thirst for world-domination. It might have been fun.  
  
“You got enough of a chance to know me today,” Ginny told him.  
  
“Oh, very well, if I must,” Snape said, shaking hands with her. Snape heard the door shut behind him as he walked away and reflected that Ginny was the lucky one, after all, the one who was moving on. And here Snape was, once again, trailing about after Potter and trying to save him from himself—and getting absolutely no recognition for it.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
When Snape got back, Draco had already fixed dinner and Harry and Ron were glued to the Wizarding Wireless listening to the Canons/Kestrels game. Snape tried to say hello, but Harry shushed him and they both waved him away.  
  
“Gosh, and it’s finally good news for once,” he said dryly to Draco. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother.”  
  
“You’re lucky; at least Harry’s in a good mood now. I tried to take him out to buy shoes. I thought we’d find some nice Italian loafers, just so that I wouldn’t have to spend half the day tying his ridiculous trainers. He did just fine until we got into the shop. I don’t think he’d ever been in there before, and he seems to be a bit more volatile when you take him new places. He started to get really nervous and upset and eventually accused me of trying to trap him and bring him to Voldemort. He leapt behind the counter and started throwing shoes at everyone and screaming that they were agents of the Dark Lord. I said, ‘What, _shoe_ sellers of the Dark Lord?’ But he was well beyond reason by that point. I had to immobilize him and drag him out of there like a sack of potatoes.”  
  
“Oh, gods,” Snape sighed.  
  
“Yes, fun indeed. How was _your_ day? Marginally less absurd, I hope?” Draco gestured to a kitchen chair and poured them each a tumbler of scotch. “Where were you?”  
  
“With Ginny Potter,” Snape told him. He could see Harry and his friend in the other room, talking animatedly, whooping when the Canons scored.  
  
“Find out anything interesting?”  
  
“I learned that I quite enjoy going, _Muwahahaha!_ ” Snape told him. “I’m going to do it more often. ‘Sir, give me a half pound of butter, _muwahahaha!_ ’ ‘Madam, orange does not compliment your complexion— _muwhahahaha!’_ I always wanted to take up exercise, but the trick is finding something you enjoy.”  
  
Draco gave a long, put-upon sigh. “Living with Potter is starting to rub off on you.”  
  
“Why? Does Potter ever go _muwahahaha?_ He’d better not. That’s _my_ catchphrase.”  
  
“Snape, _really._ You said it was good news. Can we get back to the good news, or are you going to laugh like an evil genius all night for no reason?”  
  
“Oh, very well. I take it you returned sans shoes?”  
  
“I can’t imagine having the courage to show myself to the proprietor of that shop again, not when last I saw him he had fine Italian tread imprinted on his forehead. But then Ron came over to visit, and since I had backup, we all risked walking into town and picking up eggs and cream and coffee.”  
  
“Oooh, we’ve got coffee for breakfast? _Muwahahaha!_ ” Snape said. He found the effect improved if he also rubbed his hands together. “Apologies,” he added at the dirty look Draco gave him. “I just really needed to do it once more to get it out of my system. Besides, today really has been a _muwahahaha_ kind of day. I found out the cause of all of Potter’s problems.”  
  
Now Draco perked up. “Really? What is it?”  
  
Snape smiled. “Me.”  
  
“Colour me surprised,” Draco replied sarcastically.  
  
“No, _really._ Apparently Potter got a hold of some of my old things. He developed a . . .” _Crush? Infatuation? Everlasting love that would know no barrier and outlive the sun and moon?_ “An interest,” Snape finally settled on, “in me. I am a fascinating person,” he added, in case evidence currently suggested otherwise.  
  
Draco rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well, I can tell you’re in a good mood because I’ve never seen you this bubbly before, but you’re not making a whole lot of sense.”  
  
Snape cleared his throat, straightened, and tried to look sensible. “He became obsessed. He and his wife fought about it. Finally, she threatened divorce, and he did something to himself—I think he meant to purge all memories of me, but obviously you’re tearing great holes in the fabric of your mind, if the allegory works for you—and it was all just too much. The poor, sweet boy. The tattered remnants of his memory are buffeted by the merest breeze.”  
  
They looked out at Harry, who chose this moment to laugh so hard at something Ron said that butterbeer came out his nose.  
  
“That would be a lot more haunting and sad,” Draco remarked, “if I wasn’t aware of what an idiot Potter was before he even thought about mucking with his memory.”  
  
“Still, it finally makes sense. Now I know what happened!” Snape crowed.  
  
Draco gave him a look. “Are you this happy because Potter fancied you?”  
  
Snape shook his head impatiently. “No!” he said. He looked at Draco earnestly. “I’m happy,” he said, “because now that I know what’s wrong, I can _fix it._ ”  
  
“I think you’re just aglow because Potter lurved you.”  
  
Snape felt his face grow hot. “Certainly not. Potter is my patient in the insane asylum we call Madam Teabury’s Little Loonybin for the Handsome and Demented.”  
  
“It’s—what are you _talking_ about?”  
  
Snape made an expansive gesture. “Potter started calling it that, and it sort of stuck. You have to admit it fits awfully well.”  
  
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “And you just deftly changed the subject from your romantic interest in Harry.”  
  
“Or I thought I did, anyway,” Snape mumbled, taking a sip of scotch.  
  
“It _is_ the perfect name. Taking a job at this place is like joining the Mad Hatter’s tea party. We’re all mad, here! You have to be mad, or else you wouldn’t be here! And you only get madder the longer you stay.”  
  
“Or trying to fix others’ madness drives you mad,” Snape said.  
  
Draco looked at him coolly for a long moment, swishing a finger around in his scotch. “But you do have a romantic interest in Harry?” he said shrewdly.  
  
“There wouldn’t be any point,” Snape hedged. “He can’t even remember my name.”  
  
Draco arched a brow. “It sounds like Potter had quite a romantic interest in _you_ at one time,” he pointed out. “If you could restore him to himself, you might have a chance.”  
  
“Ha,” Snape said gruffly. He stared into the golden liquid in his glass. “I’m not sure what I did to get his interest the _first_ time. He loathed me at school. I did my best to provoke him at every opportunity—I couldn’t afford him to like me. _He_ couldn’t afford to like me—not when Voldemort could rummage about in his otherwise empty head so easily. But somehow or another, he came to . . . like me very much. I very much doubt that could be replicated.”  
  
“He was obsessed with you. He was in love. That doesn’t just go away,” Draco argued.  
  
“If you lose all recollection of the person you were in love with, I’m fairly certain it does. Anyway,” Snape said with a sniff, “I never would have suspected you were a closet romantic.”  
  
“I’m not a closet anything. I bring my wife flowers and take her on amorous holidays all the time. Besides, Potter already likes you. I don’t think it would be impossible to win him over again,” Draco said.  
  
Snape looked at him askance. “I took every opportunity to belittle and deride him. I assisted his worst enemy, however reluctantly. I killed the man he most admired in the world. If he should regain any one of those memories . . . odds are not good that he could forgive me a second time.”  
  
Draco slugged back the rest of his drink. “But you’re still going to try, aren’t you,” he stated shrewdly.  
  
Snape buried his face in his hands. “Damn your eyes, I probably will. I don’t even know for certain how I did it the first time, but if I can, I’ll make Harry Potter love me all over again. And I know it will be all the harder the second time around.”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Snape’s eyes narrowed as he studied the heavy-set man perched uncomfortably on the stool in front of him. “You . . . are my _greatest achievement!_ ” he hissed. He couldn’t resist adding, “ _Muwahahaha!_ ”  
  
Dudley Dursley flinched. “I did this because I owe Harry, I really do, but could you— _please_ —stop laughing like that?”  
  
Snape cleared his throat. “My apologies.”  
  
“Is this going to hurt?”  
  
“Not at all,” Hermione cut in. She’d insisted on being present, saying that, as a Muggle-born, she’d be better able to explain things to Harry’s cousin. They were a bit of a tight fit in Snape’s little potions lab in the cellar. “You won’t even forget the memories Snape uses,” she told him. “It’s—it’s just as though he’s making a copy of them for Harry to keep.”  
  
Dudley took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “Go on, then,” he said.  
  
Snape weighed the best way to proceed. The others were all easy—they were wizards themselves, capable of extracting their own memories. But Dudley was the only Dursley Snape had been able to locate and, of course, he had no magical abilities at all. Snape raised his wand to Dudley’s temple. As he drew it away, a thin, glowing spiderweb of memory was pulled out of Dudley’s head, and Snape quickly slid the strand into the vial he’d brought for this purpose. “One down, a million to go,” he joked.  
  
Dudley gaped. “That was my memory of Harry?”  
  
“One of them,” Snape told him. He extracted another and dropped it into the vial. “We will likely be here a while,” he warned.  
  
Dudley’s chins wobbled. “That’s fine by me,” he grunted.  
  
It took hours, but eventually, Dudley was finished—and Snape had no less than fifty-eight little glass vials, all stoppered and full of Dudley Dursley’s memories of Harry Potter.  
  
When it was finally over, the large man got up, his legs a bit wobbly, his face covered in a sheen of sweat. “That . . . wasn’t much fun,” he said. “Hope it works.”  
  
“Thank you so much for your help,” Hermione told him warmly.  
  
Dudley looked surprised. “It’s—really the least I could do,” he mumbled.  
  
While Hermione escorted him out, Snape began the potion.  
  
Each memory had to be reviewed, carefully, to be sure it was a memory of Potter. Then they had to be added, in chronological order, to the brew Snape had carefully been concocting for the past week. It was a tedious, tricky process, with memories from nearly every person Harry Potter had ever interacted with. Draco had even wheedled some out of his father. Ron Weasley had the most, thousands upon thousands of memories. Luckily, the end product—the final potion with all the memories put together—would be concentrated into a single vial.  
  
After an hour of going through Dudley Dursley’s memories, Snape was beginning to understand why the large man would be so surprised to be thanked by a friend of Harry’s—and why he felt he owed Harry. Harry Potter had come from a life of startling abuse and neglect. Snape had been aware that Potter’s aunt and uncle were distasteful—he’d had enough run-ins with Petunia to know exactly how insipid and unpleasant she could be—but he hadn’t realised things were quite so horrid.  
  
Snape hadn’t known the boy was practically starved. He hadn’t realized they’d caged him like an animal. He knew they were foul, but the things they called Harry, the contempt on their faces, the things he’d been made to do . . . it was almost Dickensian.  
  
After another half hour, Snape had to take a break. Watching an eight-year-old boy being called a filthy little freak and locked in a cupboard for two days just because he’d accidentally turned the kitchen utensils purple made the bile rise in Snape’s gullet. And it brought to the surface unwanted memories of Snape’s own childhood, as well.  
  
He put the potions on hold and went upstairs.  
  
It was a lively atmosphere. Ron and young James were both visiting, with Draco overseeing things and watching Harry carefully. When Harry got upset because he didn’t know where he’d set his glass, Draco quickly retrieved it—and made sure it had a drop of Calming Draught. Then he swiftly distracted Harry with debate about Quidditch rule changes.  
  
Severus watched this in silent bemusement. Dudley Dursley was not the only one to come late to the realization of what he owed Harry Potter. Nor was Draco Malfoy, Snape thought ruefully. When the moment seemed right, he snagged the elbow of Ron’s robe and pulled him aside.  
  
“Did you _know_ about the things they did to him?”  
  
“The Dursleys?” Ron asked with raised eyebrows. “Who do you think rescued him in a flying Ford Anglia in second year?”  
  
Snape’s stomach felt like a piece of wash that someone was trying to wring dry. _And I punished them for it,_ he remembered.  
  
Ron scuffed his foot on the floor. “I knew some of it,” he said. “It was pretty bad. But Harry didn’t much like to talk about it. I didn’t push. I listened, but I didn’t nag when he wanted to change the subject.”  
  
“He was so small,” Snape mumbled. Harry hadn’t seemed so small when he started at Hogwarts. He’d seemed the spitting image of James—brash and cheeky and the holder of the devil’s own luck. “Someone should have done something,” he added under his breath.  
  
“How come _you_ never noticed?” asked Ron. “You were the one who followed us and spied on us, convinced we were always up to no good. Why didn’t you believe he had such a rough time at home?”  
  
Snape opened and shut his mouth several times. He’d had glimpses, but he’d ignored them. Some small, nasty part of him had even believed Potter deserved what he got. “I don’t know,” was all he could say. He’d been blinded by his hatred of Harry’s father, really. He'd never seen Harry as a separate person.  
  
Ron shrugged. “Well, he’s a Weasley now, or good as. He's got a real family. And he’s got you, too.”  
  
Snape sighed. “Yes. He’s got me, too,” he agreed glumly. “For whatever that’s worth.”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
The vial was deceptively small. All of Snape’s efforts, all of those memories, they had all been distilled into this one, tiny vial, this one _moment._  
  
The potion inside was murky, changeable. It almost looked like a bottled thunderstorm—swirling clouds of silvery gray, bruise-purple and deep blue all tumbled about behind the glass. It had taken him twelve full days, but finally, it was almost finished.  
  
Snape had one last ingredient to add—one single drop of armadillo bile. The liquid swelled at the tip of the dropper, trembled, then plunged.  
  
The fluid plunked into the potion with a gentle hiss, like a pat of butter dropped into a warmed saucepan. Instantly, the potion lit up like a fairy light, turning a scintillating peacock blue.  
  
Snape let out a shaky breath. Perfect. It was just perfect.  
  
He left the potion where it was to cool, but took the stairs two at a time, his robes swishing about his ankles.  
  
Harry was asleep in the rocking chair. He’d never looked quite so unprepossessing. His glasses were askew, his mouth was slack, and he was drooling. Snape removed the glasses very carefully and set them on a side table, and conjured a handkerchief to wipe the corner of Harry’s mouth.  
  
“Everything go all right?” Draco asked, looking up from his magazine.  
  
“I think so,” Snape answered. “It’s ready.” He was exhilarated—he always was when he created a new spell or potion—but he was also gut-twistingly apprehensive. Depending on how well the potion worked, Harry might remember just enough to revile him again.  
  
Draco looked at Harry, lulled unconscious by the self-rocking chair, to Snape, looking wistfully down on the boy. “Let’s not wake him,” he suggested. “It’s going to be a big enough change for him. The least we could do is let him get a full night’s sleep first.”  
  
Snape wasn’t sure if it was compassion or cowardice that moved him to nod his head.  
  
Draco cleared his throat. “Do we know exactly how this will affect him?”  
  
Snape took a seat next to Draco. “Not exactly, no. It will be as if we sewed patches over some of the more egregious holes in the tapestry of his mind. I have used the memories of others to firm up what Harry himself remembers—if his brain cannot immediately access one of his own memories, it can sort of fill in the blanks with those of others’.”  
  
“How much will it help?”  
  
“It’s doubtful that it will cure him completely. It should, however, make him a great deal more stable. I’m not sure the extent it will help. Perhaps he’ll function nearly at a level he once used to. Perhaps there will be unforeseen difficulties. Despite my best efforts, I could not locate Petunia or Vernon—I’d give a good deal to know how they disappeared so completely, but that’s neither here nor there—so some of his earlier memories are probably lost forever.”  
  
“What does that mean?” Draco asked, his brow wrinkled.  
  
Snape held up his empty hands in bafflement. “Who knows? Some experts believe those years are our formative ones, whether they’re good or bad. ”  
  
Draco raised his eyebrows. “If your earliest memories are pretty important, won't it be bad that we can't restore them? I heard children who are abused as toddlers end up as psychopaths.”  
  
Snape snorted. “He was _already_ abused at that age—or at the very least, he was neglected. And he turned out just fine—or he was until he stupidly decided to remove important portions of his already imperfect mind. Considering what the Dursleys put him through, I’m very sceptical that we could make it worse by not having him remember it. But he seems to do better with older memories than newer ones anyway, so maybe it won’t matter in the end. And who knows? I may help his long term memory, but discover his short term memory is still weak. Or vice versa. I’m hopeful that this will help him lead a full life, but nothing is certain at this moment.”  
  
Draco nodded. They were both quiet a long moment. Draco had fixed himself a cup of cocoa, and now wrapped his pale fingers around the cup. “If he ends up cured, he won’t need me anymore,” he said in a quiet voice. “Nor you.”  
  
“That’s indeed the curse of anyone who nurses a wild animal back to health and has to set it free,” Snape acknowledged bleakly.  
  
“But he won’t forget what I’ve done for him?” Draco put in hopefully. “He’ll still remember that I was here, that I took care of him.”  
  
“There’s an excellent chance he’ll remember you,” Snape said.  
  
Draco got to his feet, much cheered. “Good. He’ll owe me, for once.” He looked at the cuckoo clock, which had been repaired. “I ought to be off home. I’m going to be glad when this is all over, and Harry can take care of himself,” he said with great optimism. “It’ll be nice to crawl into bed beside my wife before two in the morning now and then.”  
  
“It’s been a long week,” Snape agreed with a yawn. “But I’ll need you a while longer, never worry. Even if he miraculously regained all memory function, I’d want him monitored for at least a few weeks.”  
  
“Good. Not out on my arse just yet, then. So we’ll give him the potion tomorrow?” Draco asked as he struggled into his overcoat.  
  
“I . . . don’t think it appropriate that I give him the potion,” Snape said. “And to test the extent of its results, I need others anyway.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’d like a better range than just you and I. We were a part of his life for a limited time. I want his friends. People he saw outside of school. People who were still in his life after You-Know-Who’s fall. And perhaps Dudley, who knew him as a child. I need to know if he remembers what they do, and how stable those memories are. Though of course we’ll start with just one person, so as not to overwhelm him.”  
  
“That many people?” Draco said. He straightened his scarf. “You’d better start contacting them if you want them all here tomorrow.”  
  
“Yes,” Snape said with a smile. “I’ll send out the owls right now.”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Snape insisted Ginny be the one to give him the potion. She would be accompanied by Draco in case of funny turns, but Snape felt the girl should be the one to do this. She wanted Snape to attend, but he refused. It didn’t feel right. And anyway, he’d spent the past few weeks becoming uncomfortably familiar with everything about Harry Potter—through the eyes of those who loved him, at any rate. He felt himself something of a Peeping Tom and wasn’t up to being there when the boy realised what he’d done.  
  
He stayed in the front room with the others. Ron and Hermione were there, sipping tea and hoping, along with George and Molly Weasley, Teddy Lupin, Fanny Farfingale and Dudley Dursley. Even Hagrid had managed to magically squeeze in, though the sitting room was so small that he seemed to dwarf absolutely everything, making everyone else almost seem like dolls he’d arranged in a tea party.  
  
Snape didn’t sip tea. He didn’t sit, either. He paced about the place like a trapped tiger, swishing and slinking and snarling.  
  
“Sit down,” Hermione told him, patting the cushion beside her.  
  
“Damn your eyes, I don’t _want_ to sit!” he growled. “I can’t think when I sit!”  
  
“But yer done thinkin’ fer now,” Hagrid pointed out. “Yeh _earned_ a rest.”  
  
“ _You’re_ about to earn a curse round the ear,” Snape snapped. He went into the kitchen to pace, sulk and scowl in peace. Time seemed to be passing infinitesimally, each second slower than the last. The potion would require a little while to take full effect, but this seemed like it had already been too long. Had it been an hour? Two hours? Surely half the day had passed!  
  
In reality, it was not more than twenty minutes before Ginny let out a shriek and came running out of Harry’s room, tears coursing down her cheeks. Snape erupted from the kitchen, wild-eyed.  
  
Everyone began talking over one another.  
  
“What’s wrong, Ginny?”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“Is Harry all right?”  
  
“Are _you_ all right?”  
  
Her mother tried to grab her and ask what happened, but Ginny impatiently pushed her away and turned instead to Snape. “I gave it to him,” she choked out.  
  
“And? _And?_ ”  
  
Her smile was radiant. “He remembered! He _remembered our daughter’s birth!_ He remembers holding her. He remembers naming her! He remembers counting her little toes. Oh, Snape—” Ginny broke down completely and fell onto his shoulder. “He remembers everything!”  
  
Everyone began talking at once, excited and pleased. It was Ron who led the charge into Harry’s room, heedless of Snape’s warning to be cautious.  
  
“Harry! Harry!” he shouted.  
  
Harry looked mystified to see the herd of people flood his room, but smiled in appreciative surprise. “Hey, Ron.”  
  
“You remember the dragons?” Ron demanded immediately.  
  
Harry scratched his head. “Norbert, you mean? Or the ones back in fourth year? Or the one we escaped Gringott’s on?”  
  
Hermione squealed and clapped her hands.  
  
“You remember how I did the toast for your wedding?” Ron asked eagerly.  
  
“Sure. You got all excited at the toast, waving your glass about, and dumped your champagne right down the front of Ginny’d wedding dress. And _boy,_ was she furious.”  
  
“You DO remember!” Ron shouted, and leapt on the bed, nearly flattening Harry as he tried to hug him.  
  
“Oof! Hermione, call off your husband!” Harry said, laughing. “Really, I’m beginning to wonder which one of us lost his mind.”  
  
Everyone began talking at once again, asking Harry questions.  
  
“Do you remember Bill and Fleur’s wedding?”  
  
“Do yeh remember Fang?”  
  
“King’s Cross?”  
  
“Being Sorted?”  
  
“Me taking care of you so tenderly?” This last was Draco, who smiled at Harry cheekily.  
  
Harry’s answering smile was rather more wry. “Yes, I remember you taking care of me,” he said. “Though ‘tender’ is probably stretching it a bit.”  
  
“Do you remember how to tie your shoes?”  
  
Harry looked at his feet blankly. “Er . . .”  
  
Snape sighed, disappointed. Not quite cured, then.  
  
“So there are still a few issues. Don’t let it worry you, dear. You do seem much better than the last time I saw you,” Molly Weasley said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder.  
  
“Thanks. I’m feeling much . . . impudent? No. Impassive . . . mmm, no,” Harry said. “I can’t think of it.”  
  
“Impossible?” Snape suggested.  
  
Harry smiled at him. “Impish? I think it starts with an imp. Like better. Better health.”  
  
“Improved?”  
  
“Improved!” Harry agreed. “I’m much improved. I’m in very good spirits.”  
  
“Do you remember how to make Toothbrushing Brew?” Hermione asked.  
  
Harry’s brow wrinkled. “Um . . . you crush two ounces of mint, add one spoonful of whitening powder, put in two drops bundimun secretion, stir, then put it on your toothbrush.”  
  
“Harry, that’s wonderful!”  
  
“Do yeh remember the skrewts?” Hagrid asked excitedly.  
  
Harry laughed. “Honestly Hagrid, I wish I could forget those skrewts.” He gave the man a fond look. “But I’m really glad to remember you again.”  
  
Hagrid beamed.  
  
“Do you remember _me?_ ” Teddy Lupin asked.  
  
Harry grinned. “Of _course_ I remember you, Teddy,” he said. “Your dad was one of the best teachers I ever had.”  
  
“Speaking of teachers,” Snape cut in, “do you remember me?”  
  
“Yes,” Harry said. Snape was ready to dance until Harry added, “You’ve been taking great care of me. You’re a Healer, aren’t you?”  
  
The room went very quiet.  
  
“No. I’m Severus Snape.”  
  
“Snape?” Harry repeated. “What an odd name.”  
  
Snape tried not to let his face twitch. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he growled, “I need to run and do something.” He whirled on his heel and marched out of the room, stomped straight down into the cellar, locked and warded the door and put up a Silencing Spell.  
  
The potion was a complete failure, at least in the one area that actually counted.  
  
“BASTARD, BASTARD, _BASTARD!_ ” Snape screamed, shaking a furious fist at the sky in the hopes that if there were any gods at all, one might be paying attention now. This was one time he wished he could smite _back_. He spun in a circle, looking for something to throw. There was an entire bench full of unused glass vials. He snatched them up, hand over hand, and flung them at the stone wall, where they shattered with a series of satisfying crashes. Then he tossed a few fireballs at the wall for good measure. Then a couple of curses. Then a few bolts of lightning.  
  
Snape wished he had a volcano spell, or that he could turn into a volcano himself, rending the earth and boiling over and spewing livid lava at the sky.  
  
Finally, when all his energy was spent, if not his rage, he went and slumped down on the cellar’s bottom step. “ _Fuck,_ ” he groaned, his entire body sagging. He glared at nothing. “So Potter remembers his family. He remembers how to do Toothbrush Brew. He even remembers his marriage. Well, _balls_ to all of that!” he snarled. “None of that matters! Why the—fucking—sodding— _piss_ —can’t he remember _me?_ ”  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
When Snape finally went upstairs, the visitors had mostly disbanded. Draco, Fanny, Hagrid, Molly, George, Dudley, Ron and Hermione had all left, but to Snape’s surprise, Ginny was still waiting for him, and Minerva had also shown up to visit, sitting in the spindly wicker rocking chair and nursing a cup of tea.  
  
“Hello,” she said. “I thought I’d wait until all the excitement was over. I hear it didn’t go quite as planned?” She gave him a sympathetic look over her glasses.  
  
Snape heaved a sigh and dropped into a chair. The weather outside was stormy, reflecting his mood rather nicely. “Not quite as planned,” he agreed darkly. “He still doesn’t remember me.”  
  
“But Snape, he _does_ remember you,” Ginny broke in. “He remembers you teaching him the Toothbrushing Brew and reading to him and fixing him tea. He remembers moving here with you. He remembers you throwing a fit for some reason and breaking your clock. He even remembers that at dinner last night, he didn’t want to eat spinach and that you told him you’d gone to trouble to make it, and that if he didn’t eat it you’d jam it up his nose. He remembers an awful lot since you met him in St. Mungo’s.”  
  
Well, that was something, at least, but Snape was unwilling to let himself be comforted. “He doesn’t remember my name,” he said glumly.  
  
“Well . . . no. He doesn’t.” Ginny threw up her hands in exasperation. “Fine, Snape, if you want to sulk, then _sulk_. I don’t expect I can do anything about it. And anyway, I have to get home. I still want to check in with the caterer one last time.”  
  
“Wait, you’re not staying?” Snape said, genuinely surprised. He’d thought, now that Harry remembered the Weasleys and was stable, they’d want someone with him. He was, after all, family.  
  
“Oh, Snape. I’m getting _married_ in the morning!” Ginny told him. “Don’t you remember?”  
  
“Oh. Yes,” Snape said vaguely. There was little that interested him less than a wedding barring, perhaps, fashion or Quidditch.  
  
Ginny got up and put her cloak on. “Really, you might have scheduled all this for a different day. You do know I’ve got a lot on my plate.”  
  
Snape scowled. “The potion took exactly as long as it was going to take,” he told her.  
  
She rolled her eyes. “I ought to have known you wouldn’t apologise. You’re maddening.” She made sure her cloak was fastened tightly, as it was pouring outside.  
  
“Congratulations, dear,” McGonagall put in. She rose and gave Ginny a hug.  
  
“You’ll be there, won’t you?” Ginny asked.  
  
“Of course,” Minerva said. “It’s always so nice to see my Gryffindors all grown and happy. And Oliver is such a nice man.”  
  
“He is,” Ginny agreed. She grinned broadly. “He’s a real Keeper!”  
  
She and Minerva trilled merrily, and Snape had to groan. “Please, no Quidditch puns. I’ve had a bad enough day.”  
  
Ginny shrugged. She seemed much too buoyant to be bothered by Snape’s irritability. Well, of course she was. She was getting married in the morning. “All right, I need to go. Mum is going to send the kids to visit later this week. I’d come as well, but I’ll be on my honeymoon.”  
  
“Oh, very well,” Snape said.  
  
Ginny stuck out her hand, and Snape shook it, feeling a bit awkward. Ginny gave his hand a squeeze. “Thank you,” she said. “The fact that Harry can remember the birth of our children . . . it means so much.”  
  
Snape smiled wanly. “You’re welcome. And congratulations to you and Mr. Wood,” he added stiffly.  
  
She patted his shoulder and left.  
  
Minerva sank back into the rocking chair. “Well. You have had quite the day, haven’t you?”  
  
Snape poured himself a cup of tea as well. “Where’s Harry?”  
  
“He got a bit quiet when Ginny informed him they were divorced and she was marrying Oliver Wood,” Minerva admitted. “They got into a brief argument about it.” Snape’s stomach soured. “So Mr. Malfoy gave him a cup of tea and then Harry said he was tired.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Harry said he wanted to be alone for a little while.”  
  
“I suppose that’s understandable.” Snape frowned. Harry didn’t remember Snape, didn’t remember fighting with his wife, but _did_ remember being married and wasn’t happy to find that he no longer was. That wasn’t a good sign at all.  
  
“He does seem to be much better,” Minerva said. “I quizzed him with a good dozen questions, and I’d bet good money he could take his O.W.L.s right now.”  
  
Snape added lemon to his tea. “That’s good.”  
  
Minerva gave him a look. “Severus, really. You did an excellent job. You accomplished something that no other living being could have done, I’m sure. You ought to be proud.”  
  
“However well I did, it wasn’t good enough,” Snape insisted.  
  
“Severus, your standards are simply too high. When it comes to Harry, they always have been. Accept him for who he is,” Minerva urged.  
  
“I can’t accept the idea that Potter will never remember me,” Snape said. “It just—it’s so _galling_.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I wish I could consult Albus.”  
  
“There’s always his portrait,” Minerva pointed out.  
  
Snape blinked in surprise. “Now _there’s_ a brainwave!” he said.  
  
Minerva smiled. “That’s why I’m the Headmistress.”  
  
A shadow appeared in the doorway, and they looked up to see a rather rumpled Harry. “Hey,” he said. “Could I have some non-drugged tea, please?”  
  
Minerva poured him a cup. “I should be getting back to the school,” she said.  
  
Harry smiled. “Yeah, you probably should. Whenever Dumbledore was away, we got into such a lot of trouble.”  
  
She gave him a fond look. “Feel better, Mr. Potter.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
After she left, Harry came and sat next to Snape on the sofa and, to Snape’s surprise, leaned against him, resting his scruffy head on Snape’s arm.  
  
“What’s this about?” Snape asked.  
  
Harry shrugged. “I need comforting,” he said. “It’s been a rough day. I can’t remember having a rougher one—ha ha,” he added sardonically.  
  
“Indeed.” It had been rough for Snape as well.  
  
Harry was looking out the window, his eyes distant and tired.  
  
Snape cleared his throat. He wished Draco hadn’t left. Draco was a bit better at humouring Harry or, sometimes, merely taking him out of himself by annoying him. “Do you want to talk about it?” Snape asked gruffly.  
  
“Not really,” Harry said. He sighed. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful. What you did—I can’t even tell you what it means to me. I mean, I looked up at Hagrid, and I remembered how he said, ‘Yer a wizard, Harry!’ and . . . my whole world changed. I remember how he gave me my first birthday cake and bought me Hedwig—I was just speechless. I’d never been given a gift before—it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done! It meant so much to me. I remember walking into Hogwarts, and how nervous I was to put on the Sorting Hat. I remember Ron and Hermione and the troll! I even remember how great it was to get jumps from Mrs. Weasley at Christmas.”  
  
“Jumps?”  
  
“Yeah. They were pretty ugly sometimes. Ron always got maroon. But they were lovely and warm.”  
  
“You mean jumpers?”  
  
“What did I say?”  
  
“Never mind,” Snape told him, feeling even more disheartened. Harry didn’t seem to notice.  
  
“I remember what a thrill I got kissing Ginny for the first time,” he continued. “I remember little James taking his first steps and falling headfirst onto the dog.” Harry swallowed hard. “And I remember Sirius dying. And Remus and Fred and—and Dumbledore.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Snape said stiffly. _How could heremember Dumbledore dying, but not Snape killing him?_  
  
Harry gave him a weak smile. “Those are terrible memories. But they’re precious, too. Those memories—they make me who I am.”  
  
“I see,” Snape said. Harry seemed fairly coherent, though he was still mixing up words sometimes. It seemed like an improvement, at any rate. “But you want your wife back,” he guessed, trying not to let the envy creep into his voice.  
  
“It’s not that, exactly. But it did come as an unpleasant surprise. It’ll take a while to get used to. I guess I understand. It’s not fair to expect her to babysit me forever, and I couldn’t be what she needed. She didn’t know I would get better. Well, somewhat better.”  
  
“Then what’s bothering you?” Snape asked.  
  
“It’s just that . . . my life was intra . . .er, interrupted so many years ago. Put on hold, you know? Where do I fit in now? Everyone’s moved on but me.”  
  
Snape nodded slowly. Thinking of the day he’d faked his death and left everything behind, he could certainly understand how Potter was feeling. He tentatively put an arm around the boy. “Not everyone,” he assured him.  
  
Harry looked up at him with raised eyebrows, and then smiled. “I suppose things could be worse,” he said.  
  
“Yes,” Snape said. “I suppose they could.”  
  
They sat that way for a long time, watching the rain.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
“You two are out of practically everything,” Draco remarked, rummaging in a cupboard. “Let’s go shopping, Harry.”  
  
“Don’t feel like it,” Harry grumped. He was sitting at the kitchen table, poking at his eggs.  
  
Draco heaved a sigh. “Fine. What about you, Snape? You haven’t left the house in a week. Why don’t you get the groceries?”  
  
Snape grimaced. “I’m not in the mood,” he said, and went back to his crossword puzzle.  
  
“That’s _it_ ,” Draco snapped. He flicked his wand, Banishing Harry’s breakfast and Snape’s newspaper. Before Snape could protest, Draco pointed his wand at the man. “Get out!”  
  
“What?” Snape gasped.  
  
“Both of you! You’ve both been pouting for days, and I’ve had it! It’s finally stopped raining, so the two of you are going out and getting some fresh air. _Now_.” Harry opened his mouth, but Draco gave him a look of warning. “Don’t even _think_ about arguing with me, Potter.”  
  
“Fine,” Harry said. “Sheesh.” He went and got a jumper, because the day was still overcast and chilly, and Snape managed to put a thick cape on before Draco chased them out.  
  
“What’s got up _his_ nose?” Snape muttered as the front door slammed shut behind them.  
  
Harry gave him a sheepish look. “I guess we were both kind of being pills.”  
  
“Still, he needn’t be so short-tempered.”  
  
Harry ambled out into the sand. “Well, what do you want to do?” he asked. “Walk on the beach?”  
  
Snape looked at him for a long moment. “I’ve got a better idea.”  
  
Ten minutes later, they were up in the air. “Woo- _hoo!_ ” Harry shouted. The broom shot forward.  
  
Snape, clutching Harry’s waist, wondered if this was such a good idea after all. “We could, perhaps, go somewhat slower than the speed of light,” he suggested.  
  
“Are you joking?” Harry yelled over his shoulder. “The speed is the best part!”  
  
“Still . . .” Harry had not had a single bad turn in the past week. There were still some quirks—things Harry couldn’t remember how to do, maddening problems with his short-term memory and jumbled words—but he no longer suffered the strange, almost dissociative moments, and he hadn’t had any tantrums. As they rocketed through the air, Snape shut his eyes and wondered which was worse—an angry, irrational Potter, or the crazy daredevil he’d always been. Snape had forgotten what a reckless hooligan he was on a broom.  
  
Snape tried to remind himself that Potter was stable. He still had absolutely no memories of Snape—there were simply holes in his memory where Snape should be, and he could not retain anything he was told about Snape from the past—but he was stable. Snape was almost certain about that.  
  
“Hold on tight!” Harry whooped joyously. “I’m gonna dive!”  
  
“Potter! For pity’s sake!” Snape shouted. He’d thought Harry would be fine if Snape were there, but he realised now that he had no control over this situation at all. He daren’t take his hands off the boy long enough to root around in his pockets to get his wand.  
  
They plunged straight toward the sea, which was angry and grey, its waves topped by frothing peaks of white. It looked at bit like a mountain range, and if they hit it at the speed they were going, it might as well be one, for what it would do to their plummeting bodies. Snape’s heart leapt into his throat.  
  
But at the last moment, Harry pulled up, his fingers skimming the water and sending a salt spray back into Snape’s face.  
  
“Potter!” Snape spluttered.  
  
Harry looked back at him in surprise. “You’re really white,” he remarked, slowing. He shifted so that he was riding side-saddle. The broom took a more gentle pace, lazily drifting over the lapping shore. “Are you all right?”  
  
“Let’s not do that again,” Snape croaked.  
  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just really love flying.” Harry gave Snape a grin. “It’s so ex—ex—explain. Ex-something. Exonerating,” Harry said, struggling again. “Exhilarating!”  
  
Despite the slower pace, Snape kept his trembling hands tight around Harry’s waist. “You mean _terrifying_.”  
  
Harry laughed. To Snape’s astonishment, he reached up and took Snape’s chin and tilted it down. Harry leaned toward him, his eyes drifting shut. Just as Harry’s lips began to brush against Snape’s, Snape took him firmly by the shoulders and pushed him away.  
  
“You should keep your eyes on the road,” Snape said hoarsely.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry said at the look on Snape’s face. “I know you said you weren’t interested.”  
  
“I never said that,” Snape protested. “It’s just . . . I’m your caretaker. It isn’t right for me to take advantage of you,” he prevaricated. The truth was that he loved the idea of bedding Harry—but the thought of Harry rolling over and seeing him in the morning light only to say, ‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my bed?’—Snape just couldn’t stand it.  
  
“Sure,” Harry said. “Sure. It was terrible of you to take me out here because you know how much I love to fly and force me to throw myself at you and all. You’re a dreadful person. A real rapscallion.”  
  
Snape softened a little. “You can’t even remember my name.”  
  
“So? What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”  
  
Snape was taken aback by this. “In the first place, I cannot think of a single more inappropriate quotation to apply to me. In the second place, when did you become familiar with Shakespeare?”  
  
Harry laughed, his smile rakish and his eyes sparkling. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading, cooped up inside and not allowed to do things on my own.”  
  
Snape looked at him longingly. Add _able to quote Shakespeare_ to _handsome, generous,_ and _sexy,_ and Snape would have swooned if that hadn’t meant he would likely plop unceremoniously into the cold sea. “I really shouldn’t,” Snape said.  
  
Harry looked downcast and Snape felt as though he’d kicked a puppy. “Well, keep it in mind,” Harry said.  
  
“I will,” Snape said. He’d thought of little else for the past month.  
  
Harry kicked his leg back over the broom and they zipped off again. “Just so you know, I’m not going to give up!” he said over his shoulder.  
  
Snape smiled at the determination in Harry’s voice. That was just what he needed to hear. So Harry wasn’t giving up? Then neither would Snape.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Refreshed and invigorated, Snape decided he would leave Harry with Draco before dinner.  
  
“But where are you going?” Draco whined. “I was supposed to have alone time with my wife!”  
  
“Not tonight,” Snape said. “Just . . . give me an hour or so, all right? I want to speak with Dumbledore.”  
  
“Fine,” Draco grumbled.  
  
“That’s a good idea,” Harry said. “I always used to go to him with my problems.”  
  
Snape’s jaw dropped. Was it really that simple? Why didn’t he think of it before?  
  
“Wow, what’s the matter?” Draco said, alarmed. “The slack-jawed bug-eyed look is really not a good one on you.”  
  
Snape’s mouth snapped shut. He wasn’t going to say anything. Not yet. Not this time. Not until he was _sure_. “Never mind,” he said. He shot to his feet. “Just watch Potter, all right?”  
  
“I really don’t need a babysitter,” Harry complained.  
  
Snape hesitated. “Just for tonight,” he promised. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”  
  
Snape Floo’d into McGonagall’s office. “I need to speak to Dumbledore,” he gasped.  
  
She looked up from her desk, startled. “Check his office,” she suggested. “Just tell the gargoyle ‘lemondrops.’”  
  
“Thank you.” Snape ran, robes flapping behind him. It was late enough that there were no children in the halls, but it was still quite the trek. When he reached the stairs he was out of breath—he was getting much too old for this kind of exertion. He gathered himself and took flight the way Voldemort had taught him, skipping the stairs altogether.  
  
“Lemondrops!” he snarled at the gargoyle, and it slowly sidled out of his way with irksome insouciance. Snape hurried up to the Headmaster’s office.  
  
All the old Headmasters were there—apparently having a poker game. They looked up in surprise as he ran into the dusty room. “Severus!” Dumbledore called out, pleased to see him.  
  
Even his own portrait was there. It gave him a scowl. “Just when I had a good hand.”  
  
“Albus!” Snape said. He took a few moments to get his breath and put his thoughts in order. “Harry lost his memory. Some time ago. It happened here. Do you remember? Did he come to talk to you?”  
  
Dumbledore gave him a sad smile. “No, dear boy. They asked me many years ago, but I’m afraid Harry did not speak to me that day. All the former Headmasters took a holiday at the beach at Sainte-Adresse.”  
  
“ _Shit_ ,” Snape swore. “What about you?” he asked his own portrait. “He must have said something to you!”  
  
The other, younger Snape cleared his throat. “I . . . saw him many times, but not the day he lost his memory.”  
  
Snape pinned himself with a suspicious look. “What do you mean, you ‘saw’ him? Which bits did you see, exactly?”  
  
Snape’s portrait bloomed like a rose in summer, glowing red. “I—we—spoke. Sometimes.”  
  
“Spoke?” Snape said with the arch of a brow.  
  
The portrait crossed his arms over his chest, looking sullen. “I’ll admit, it culminated in me needing a touch of turpentine and a bit of restoration. Certain substances do not benefit paint. I hope I don’t need to draw you a picture,” he sneered. “After that, I told him it was best if we stick with our own kind. He was very upset and didn’t attempt to see me again.”  
  
Snape stared at himself. He’d rejected Harry? Good God, that was all he needed. How was he ever going to fix this mess? He paced the room, kicking up dust. Minerva was right—it lay thick on the floor. It rose in his wake, taking flight. It floated into beams of sunlight streaming through the windows, black flakes of dust.  
  
Snape stopped. Flakes? Dust didn’t come in flakes, and it wasn’t generally black. He reached out and snatched at some—it crumbled in his fingertips, leaving a sooty streak. It wasn’t dust at all. It was ash.  
  
“I was here.”  
  
“What?” Snape replied, distracted.  
  
“ _I_ was here,” Phineas Nigellus Black said. “I saw everything. No self-respecting pure-blood wizard plays with beach balls or goes skinny dipping,” he added, wrinkling his nose at Dumbledore.  
  
“You were here? You saw everything?” Snape ran to the portrait, gripping the frame. “What happened? Tell me!”  
  
The man leaned back, giving Snape a distasteful look. “Well, first he started a fire.”  
  
“He what?”  
  
“He piled up a heap of books and scrolls and pictures and things, and then he set fire to the whole lot.” Phineas sniffed. “I told him not to, but he snapped, ‘Shut the hell up!’ and did it anyway.”  
  
Snape stared. “Books?”  
  
Phineas nodded. “In the fireplace.”  
  
True enough, the Floo was stuffed with ash and half-burned papers.  
  
“He was ranting and sobbing and carrying on. He always was over-emotional,” Phineas added, examining his fingernails, a rather scornful look on his face. “I did tell him only heathens and tyrants burned books, but you know how well he listens to common sense.”  
  
Snape prodded at the pile of ash. There were bits and pieces of un-burnt paper, and he picked up one such fragment. There wasn’t enough to tell exactly where it came from, but Snape recognised his own handwriting on the paper. So. Albus Severus was wrong. Ginny didn’t throw anything out. _Harry_ was the one who destroyed it.  
  
He poked at the pile again and the ashes skittered away. There was something bright red in the cinders, and he gingerly took it out. It was the spine of a red, leather-bound book. Snape frowned at it. He didn’t remember owning any red books at all, particularly not one with such a bright, jewel-tone. There was still one page of paper attached which hadn’t burned to a crisp.  
  
“What happened next?” Dumbledore asked.  
  
Snape looked up.  
  
Phineas cleared his throat. “He used the Pensieve.”  
  
Snape got up quickly and looked at the shallow basin. Not only was it dry—completely empty—but it had been turned over onto its side. “How? What did he do, exactly?”  
  
For the first time, the former Headmaster looked uncertain. “I haven’t seen the technique used before. He put many of his memories in the Pensieve—but as he drew them out, they weren’t silvery. They glowed a fierce red.”  
  
“And then?” Snape said.  
  
“I asked him what he was doing, and he screamed at me to get out, so I left.” Phineas looked huffy. “I know when I’m not wanted.”  
  
“Hmm.” Snape took out his wand. “ _Lumos_ ,” he hissed, holding the light up. He looked at the sad little piece of paper hanging from the little red book. With a jolt, he recognised Harry’s writing. The scrawl was shaky and cramped, done by someone upset and writing fast. Harry had kept a journal. And one last time, Snape would have to invade his privacy.  
  
Snape’s heart did a little flip when he realised Harry’s writing addressed him.  
  
 _I know you’d be furious with me for doing this,_ Harry had written, _but goddamn it, **Snape, you’re dead.** You’re not coming back. I can love you as hard as I like and I’ll never get anything from it. I don’t know exactly how it started, but now I can’t stop. I’m ruining my marriage and destroying my family. I can’t stop thinking about you. I’ve spent hours poring over your journals and your letters. You were brilliant. You were brave. You weren’t a nice bloke, but you loved fiercely and you gave the world everything you had.  
  
 **I must stop thinking about you.**  
  
It’s driving me mad—I can’t do it anymore. And as much as I pine for you, I know, I **know** that you’d be disgusted with me. You could never have loved me. But because I’ll never hear you say it, I’ll never have closure. And I’ll never be able to move on. I’m sorry, Snape. I’m letting you down. Just like everyone else did. You gave me everything—even those last memories—and I’m about to throw those away like garbage.  
  
Because I’m going to forget you. And it’s the worst thing I can do to you and I hate myself for doing it. _  
  
The page was blotched here, and Snape suspected a teardrop had fallen on it.  
  
 _But I’m going to do it. For my kids, if nothing else. I can’t bear to be in love with a memory. I’m going to rip out every memory of you I ever had and put it in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, and then I’m going to turn it over and let them sink into the stones and the earth. I’m going to destroy them.  
  
I’m going to forget you, Snape,_ Harry had scrawled. _But I’m never going to stop loving you._  
  
There was nothing more written. Snape stared at the paper, no longer seeing it. _And that was the end of Harry Potter and Severus Snape, and everything they might have been,_ he thought.  
  
Angrily, Snape dropped to his knees and began crawling about, peering at the floorboards. “They can’t _all_ be gone!” he choked out.  
  
“Severus, I don’t think you should be doing this to yourself,” Dumbledore said gently.  
  
“Shut up! Let me alone!” Snape snarled.  
  
Dumbledore sighed. “You always did have more in common with Harry than you realised,” he remarked. “Come, everyone. Let’s give him some time alone.”  
  
Snape’s own portrait hesitated. “Shouldn’t we do something for him?”  
  
“Let’s give him until sunset,” Dumbledore suggested. “Then we’ll send Minerva.”  
  
Snape ignored this. He continued crawling about the floor, pushing his lit wand-tip into crevices, looking for something, _anything._  
  
He only had until sunset. How long would that be? He glanced at the window apprehensively. Not long. Not long at all. After that, they would drag him away—and they would have to cart him to St. Mungo’s, because if he could not find this— _fix_ this—he was sure he was going to break down completely.  
  
Harry Potter had loved him. Really loved him. He’d read Snape’s journals, his innermost thoughts, seen him at his nastiest and his most brilliant—and had loved him.  
  
How could he lose the possibility of this? Surely even Severus Snape could not be that unlucky, that thoroughly despised by the gods. It was _beyond_ unfair.  
  
Something wet fell on the back of Snape’s hand. He realised dimly that he was crying, teeth clenched against the sobs wracking his body.  
  
 _No. No. There had to be something!_  
  
He looked in every corner, every cranny. He ran his fingers over rugs and baseboards. He crawled until his knees ached, until they were scraped and banged and bruised. He crawled until his palms were numb from supporting him.  
  
He crawled until the sun had set.  
  
There was a gentle rapping at the door. “Severus?” Minerva said.  
  
 _No!_ Snape thought. _Whatever sins I’ve committed, have I not paid enough?_ But there was nothing more to be done. They’d come to drag him away, and it was over. Snape let himself collapse, face-first on the floor, his eyes shut tight.  
  
“Severus?” Minerva said, opening the door with a creak. “This really is enough. You must get up now. Let’s go have a drink, shall we?”  
  
Snape felt the fight go out of him. He opened his eyes. “All right.” He blinked. It couldn’t be—could it? Snape squinted. “Nox,” he whispered. There, in the cracks between the floorboards, was a dim red glow. Snape sat up with a gasp.  
  
“Severus, what is it?” Minerva said, startled.  
  
Snape poked his wand between the floorboards and drew out the single red strand. “One of Harry’s memories,” he said reverentially.  
  
The Headmistress put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my.”  
  
Snape fished a vial out of his pocket and carefully slipped the memory in. It curled at the bottom of the vial, barely glowing, writhing like an angry, ethereal worm. Snape stared at it. He held a memory of himself—just one memory.  
  
Snape found his hands were shaking. His mind raced. He was suddenly gripped by misgivings. Was it a good memory? Surely Harry would at least know him again once he had it. But odds were so very, very low that it was anything like a good memory. Snape had never been kind to the boy, and now his nastiness had come back to haunt him.  
  
Could he risk returning it, if it would make Harry hate him forever? Would the good he’d done in the past few months be enough to overcome whatever was in this bottle?  
  
Snape dragged a hand through his hair. Maybe he should put it in the Pensieve and have a look—just in case. There was no point in returning an unpleasant memory of himself to Potter. But . . . the memory could help Harry; it could further stabilize him. It represented all he had tried to strip away. Snape looked at the overturned stone basin.  
  
Minerva offered him a hand up. “What are you going to do?”  
  
Snape shook his head. He couldn’t answer.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Snape didn’t return to the cottage right away. He went for a long walk on the beach instead, feeling jumbled and apprehensive.  
  
Should he return the memory to Harry? Even a terrible memory was still _something._ He could build on it, couldn’t he? He could show Harry that he wasn’t the unpleasant and selfish man he used to be. Except that he _was,_ of course. He could show Harry, at least, that wasn’t all there was to him. He’d already made a good start by taking such good care of the boy and working so hard to return him to himself. That had to count for something, didn’t it?  
  
Snape tried to fight off the feeling that it wouldn’t; his good intentions had never garnered him much before, so why should things change now?  
  
Eventually, the sun began to set. Snape stared out to sea. The waves were burnished gold.  
  
Finally he turned and went inside. Draco was waiting for him. “What happened?”  
  
Snape hesitated. “Where’s Potter?”  
  
“I think he’s dozing. Or reading.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“He did really well today,” Draco said. “No meltdowns or real confusion or anything. He wrote a letter to his kids. He’s still having trouble with some of the words and spelling, though.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
Draco looked irritated. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”  
  
“Let’s go outside,” Snape suggested. He didn’t want Potter overhearing. They dragged a couple of chairs out and sat just outside the front door.  
  
“So?” Draco said.  
  
Snape let the self-rocking-chair soothe him with its steady rhythm. “I found a memory.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Harry destroyed his memories of me, but one survived.”  
  
“Which one?” Draco asked, looking interested.  
  
Agitated, Snape rocked a little faster. “I don’t know.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, what’s the worst that could happen?” Draco questioned pragmatically.  
  
What was the worst that could happen? Snape frowned. “I suppose the worst possibility is Harry realising that he loathes me and declaring that he never wants to lay eyes on me again.”  
  
“That seems a little unlikely, considering what you’ve been through together over the past few months,” Draco said.  
  
“Yes . . . but some of his memories of me are truly horrible. That memory would stand out. As nasty and emotionally charged as most of our encounters were—well, it could unravel everything.”  
  
“Do you think so?”  
  
“Absolutely. You saw how venomous I was, even with people I didn’t dislike. I was worse with Harry.”  
  
Draco shrugged. “So, say the worst happens. And Potter hates you. If that’s the case, could you live with the results?”  
  
Snape sighed. “Yes, of course. I’m not some starry-eyed, teenaged twit, ready to pine to death over Harry Potter. But the loss would be a blow.” And Severus Snape had already lost much—he couldn’t imagine just giving up with a shrug and going to a—a single’s bar or something, not after losing Potter. No; Snape would go on, but something inside him would certainly wither and die. He had reached out once to Lily and been rejected; he didn’t think he had it in him to reach out again. Snape tolerated people, and sometimes he even liked them, but he rarely loved, and when he did, he did it with the same fury and intensity with which he did everything, and that love did not fade with time.  
  
He would not die without Potter, but he would likely nurse the agony of rejection in private, and he would not love another. Not again.  
  
Draco looked amused. “You really like him,” he said.  
  
Snape shot him a dirty look.  
  
“No, I mean, _really_. I never thought I’d live to see the day the idea of Potter hating you would get you to make sad puppy eyes. I’m not trying to be unkind, but it really is quite funny.”  
  
“It is not,” Snape retorted.  
  
Draco shook his head, a smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. “So let’s say you return the memory. What are the possibilities? What are we talking about, exactly?”  
  
Snape tried to think what Potter might remember. “Well, you remember Potions.”  
  
“So . . . what, you think he’ll remember you holding him responsible for the time Longbottom melted his cauldron? Or how you used to deduct points from Gryffindor for petty things?”  
  
“Possibly,” Snape said. He’d be lucky if it were something like that. It could be much worse. Harry had spent most of his first year at Hogwarts thinking Snape was trying to kill him. It seemed improbable that the memory would, instead, be Dumbledore informing Harry that Snape had actually been trying to save his life. “He could remember how I tried to have him expelled for the incident with the flying car in his second year,” Snape suggested. “Or that I tried to get him banned from Quidditch.”  
  
Draco nodded. “Banned from Quidditch? A grudge worth carrying for a lifetime,” he said somberly.  
  
Snape was annoyed. Draco wasn’t taking his plight seriously enough. “This single memory could be of the day I revealed Lupin was a werewolf, costing him his job teaching at Hogwarts,” he pointed out.  
  
“That’s a bit worse,” Draco acknowledged. “But I still don’t think it’s the end of the world.”  
  
Snape thought harder. “He might only recall the day I read Rita Skeeter’s less-than-flattering article about him aloud to his Potions class, causing the you and the rest of the Slytherins to howl with mirth. Or the time you had cursed Granger’s overly-large teeth and I claimed that I didn’t see a difference. He might recall any number of times when I mocked or humiliated him.” Snape looked at his hands. “Or he might remember learning that I had been a Death Eater.”  
  
“He might,” Draco said.  
  
“Or he could remember some random moment from one of the disastrous Occlumency lessons,” Snape said. Harry might remember looking into Snape’s memories to see Snape calling Lily a mudblood, or—or Snape being publically turned upside-down and stripped, shamed by James. Snape wasn’t about to tell Draco about that, nor about how Snape caught him at it and threw a jar of cockroaches at Harry’s head.  
  
Snape groaned. “Whether it’s a small thing or a big thing, it’s probably bad,” he said. “It could be anything from the detentions I doled out on a regular basis to the night I killed Albus Dumbledore.”  
  
“Or the fact that you could have killed Harry as well at the time, but didn’t,” Draco pointed out.  
  
“Perhaps,” Snape said curtly. Would Harry remember how Snape was the one who severed George’s ear, or would he remember learning later that it had, in fact, been a Death Eater Snape was aiming at, one who was about to kill Remus Lupin? Would Harry remember the sword of Gryffindor, and discovering Snape was the one who led him to it? Would Harry remember learning the truth of Snape, the things Snape had to do in order to give Harry a chance to defeat the Dark Lord? Would he remember Snape dying in his arms, giving Harry those last, priceless memories? Or would he remember the instant hatred or one of a thousand petty cruelties?  
  
Tallying it all up, the chances that Harry would remember something good about Snape were negligible. He felt sick.  
  
“There is, of course, also the possibility that the memory is more recent,” Draco said.  
  
“It’s a slim possibility. Perhaps Harry would remember reading bits of my journal or discovering something that made him love me. Whatever that was.” Snape really couldn’t imagine how it had happened. It must have happened very gradually, and one memory did not make for an everlasting love. “While it’s true that I’m not quite the monster I always seemed to Harry, I’m still well aware of my shortcomings. I’m sarcastic and self-centred, defensive and easily angered.”  
  
“Yes, but you’re also highly intelligent, skilled at spells and potions, and even if you’re selfish sometimes, you can also be amazingly selfless,” Draco argued. “You killed Dumbledore to prevent me from doing it—from having to do it. You kept me from becoming a murderer.”  
  
“Yes, well, I promised your mother,” Snape said with a hand-wave. “And Dumbledore too, of course.”  
  
“Aw, and you’re so humble, too,” Draco said with a grin.  
  
Snape smiled grudgingly. Perhaps Draco was right. It was hard to say—Snape could be very nasty when the mood was on him, but he had some redeeming qualities. He had great capacity for loyalty, if one earned his affections, and the flipside of his anger was probably a good amount of passion in bed, not that he’d had a chance to try that out of late. And he was, he knew, a brave man. At heart, he thought himself a good man as well, if not a kind or gentle one. Perhaps Harry had discovered one of these qualities from his writings? It wasn’t impossible. “The memory _might_ be a good one,” he admitted.  
  
Still, the majority of his interactions with Harry had been downright vicious. Harry had seen the very best of Snape and the very worst of him, and Snape doubted they came close to balancing each other out.  
  
Draco studied him. “Well? What are you going to do?”  
  
Snape sighed. “Sleep on it,” he said.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
The next morning, Snape woke with an idea. He got up, put on his Hawaiian shirt and a pair of trousers and carefully combed his hair.  
  
He found Potter already up, sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal, fruit juice and toast. Harry smiled around a bite of toast.  
  
“Good morning,” Snape said.  
  
“Good morning . . . you,” Harry replied after he’d swallowed. “I tried to make a pot of tea, but apparently I did something wrong because it bit me.”  
  
“It what?” Snape said, baffled.  
  
“It bit me! Pinched my finger with its lid and ran off and hid in the front room under the sofa. It won’t come out and it whistles shrilly whenever I get too close. I was worried it would wake you, so I let it alone.”  
  
Snape shook his head and sat down. “Things are never dull around you.”  
  
Harry smiled. “It’s part of my charm.”  
  
Snape smiled back. “I suppose it is. Listen, I was wondering if you’d like to do something today, just the two of us.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Romantic outings were not exactly Snape’s forte. “We could . . . we could go to the zoo.”  
  
“A Wizarding zoo?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Harry’s eyes lit up. “Neat! I’ve never even heard of a Wizarding zoo!”  
  
There was a stroke of luck. Snape had only offered because he knew a free one, and looking after Potter had not exactly paid the bills the past few months. “Oh? Well, you’re in for a treat. We’ll visit Wilby’s Worstiary.”  
  
They left as soon as Snape had eaten some toast and eggs and coaxed the tea kettle out to make a cup. Harry seemed buoyant, rising and falling on the balls of his feet.  
  
“This is so exciting!” he said as Snape bought tickets. “Do they have dragons? Those are illegal, right?”  
  
Snape shrugged. “They nurse injured ones back to health and take in babies that people tried to raise and then abandoned once they grew too large. And there’s Bessie; she’s been a staple for many years.”  
  
Bessie was the first exhibit they went to see; she was an old Welsh Green who’d been raised in captivity and had never taken to being put in the wild, no matter how many times they let her go. She always found her way home. She was sunning herself in her enclosure when they arrived.  
  
“Coo-ee!” Harry called at her. She opened one eye and flopped her tail lazily. “What do they feed her?” Harry wondered.  
  
“They used to feed her goats and deer,” Snape informed him. “But now it’s mostly ground turkey or hamburger.”  
  
“Hamburger? Really?”  
  
“Well, she hasn’t got any teeth left,” Snape pointed out. The dragon yawned, proving his point.  
  
“She seems a good natured old girl, doesn’t she?”  
  
“Oh, yes. They used to let kiddies ride her in a great circle above the zoo until her arthritis got too bad.”  
  
“How do you know so much?” Harry asked.  
  
“I know many things,” Snape replied mysteriously. In truth, the aging dragon was a source of income; Snape mixed anti-arthritis potions and claw-rot-remover on the zoo’s behalf.  
  
“So,” Harry said casually as they examined a hippocampus, “why are we really here?”  
  
“You mean you caught on to my plan to feed you to the chimera? And so soon! Foiled again,” Snape said.  
  
Harry nudged him. “You never take me places or do things just for fun. Why start now?”  
  
Snape didn’t answer.  
  
“Am I dying or something? It’s something about me, isn’t it? Whatever you’re thinking about.”  
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
“When it comes to you, it’s always about me,” Harry replied breezily.  
  
Snape stiffened a little. He pretended to read the plaque on the hippocamp cage. “Nonsense,” he replied. “I have many other interests.”  
  
“Name one,” Harry challenged.  
  
“Potions,” Snape said instantly.  
  
“Like the ones you brewed to improve my thinking or the Calming Draughts you mixed up when I was having a bad spell?”  
  
Snape sniffed. “I have other hobbies. I read a lot. I’m always researching and learning new things.”  
  
“Sure. I’ve seen you with dozens of books about damaged minds and messed up memories.”  
  
Snape gave Harry a baleful look. “I’ve _invented_ spells and potions, you know.”  
  
“Oh, yes. Right. Like the one that just about cured me,” Harry said gleefully.  
  
“And I’ve—friends. Outside of you.”  
  
“Uh-huh. Like Draco.”  
  
“Exactly!”  
  
“The bloke you hired to make sure I wouldn’t do myself an injury while you were reading books and doing research and messing up— _mixing_ up potions to cure me.”  
  
“Touché,” Snape sighed. Well, perhaps it was better to be straightforward about the whole thing. “I found one of your memories.”  
  
“Another?”  
  
“One of me. You tried to destroy them all, but I found one.”  
  
“I did?”  
  
Snape smiled sadly. “You’ve been told, but you can’t remember. You can't retain anything that has to do with me.”  
  
“That’s weird.”  
  
“You went to great lengths to forget me.”  
  
“Did I? Because I hated you?” Harry looked surprised.  
  
“Because you loved me.”  
  
“Hmm. Two sides of the same coin. But anyway, you found a memory?”  
  
“Yes. Just one. But if I return it to you, you may be able to retain information about me. My name, at the very least.”  
  
“That’s wonderful!”  
  
“Is it?” Snape asked, giving Harry a meaningful look.  
  
“Isn’t it?” Harry said.  
  
Snape strolled, hands clasped behind his back. “I know you don’t remember it, but we were not friends when you were younger.”  
  
“Were we enemies, then?” Harry wanted to know.  
  
“Truly epic enemies,” Snape agreed with a crooked smile. “Except that, though I didn’t realise it at the time, it was never you I hated. Your father was cruel to me, you see, and you looked so like him. I attributed so many of his negative traits to you, despite the fact that you did nothing to me. Well, you did steal from me and invade my privacy and generally drive me straight round the bend, but you didn’t deserve my contempt. Not as much as I gave you, at any rate.”  
  
“What are you saying?”  
  
“I’m saying that I’m sorry,” Snape told him. He stopped and looked at the boy. “I’d give anything to take back some of the things I did and said. And now . . . well, in a way, I suppose could. If I don’t return your memory, then to you, those things won’t even have happened, because you’ll never remember any of them. But it isn’t the honourable thing,” Snape said with a sigh.  
  
“And you’re nothing if not honourable,” Harry replied. He smiled a little. “Awwww. You’re worried I won’t like you anymore if you give my memory back. That’s really quite sweet.”  
  
“I am _not_ sweet,” Snape shot back.  
  
“You are. You tuck me in at night and worry about me all the time and you even went out of your way to be nice to Al. Sorry, but that’s pretty adorable. On a scale of one to kitten-wearing-a-bowtie, you’ve reached at least puppy-wants-to-be-adopted levels of sweetness.”  
  
Snape rolled his eyes.  
  
“What have you got to lose?” Harry asked.  
  
“You,” Snape finally admitted, turning to pin Harry with a hungry look. “How _can_ I return your memory?” He spread his hands helplessly. “I’m afraid you’ll hate me.”  
  
Harry shrugged. “So don’t, then.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“So don’t give the memory back. Keep it. I’m pretty sure I can function without it. I’m doing much better than before, at any rate.”  
  
“But then you’ll never even be able to call me by name,” Snape protested.  
  
Harry tilted his head. “Then return it! Return it or don’t. It’s your choice.”  
  
“That isn’t what I was hoping to hear,” Snape grumbled.  
  
“What do you want me to say?”  
  
“I don’t know. I was rather hoping you’d pitch a fit and demand I return it so that when I did and you hated me, I could blame you instead of myself.”  
  
“Your thought processes are kind of difficult to follow. You make things too com—compare. Complete. Something.”  
  
“Complex?”  
  
“Yeah, that.”  
  
“Well, let’s worry about it later,” Snape said. “Why don’t we just enjoy today for now? And maybe at least _this_ will be a good memory,” he added sadly. Harry slipped his hand into Snape’s. Snape squeezed it a little.  
  
“I’ll still remember today, won’t I?” Harry said. “Even if you return the memory?”  
  
“Of course,” Snape told him.  
  
Harry nodded. “Then I’ll remember you love me,” he said.  
  
Snape was speechless. He couldn’t have said it if you paid him a thousand Galleons, but somehow, Harry knew. “Come on,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll buy you some fairy floss.”  
  
“Sounds good,” Harry told him with a smile.  
  
oOoOoOo  
  
Snape spent several minutes pacing before he got up the courage to go into Harry’s bedroom. They’d had a good day together and then went out for a nice dinner and had a stroll on the beach, but the enchanted evening had to come to an end at some point. Eventually, Harry had suggested they turn in for the evening. Actually, Harry’s turn of phrase was slightly different, but Snape had informed him he didn’t do that sort of thing on the first date.  
  
When Snape looked in the bedroom, Harry was sitting on the bed in his pyjamas with his legs crossed, deeply engrossed in a book. Snape rapped sharply on the doorframe and Harry looked up in surprise. “Oh! What’s up?”  
  
Snape swallowed hard. “Do you have a moment?”  
  
“Suddenly you care? No offense, but usually you just sort of barge in no matter what I’m busy with,” Harry pointed out.  
  
Snape smiled crookedly. “I do tend to be a bit impatient.”  
  
“Just a bit,” Harry laughed. He patted the bed beside him. “Have a seat.”  
  
Snape perched on the edge of Harry’s bed. “If I gave your memory back and you didn’t want to be near me anymore, what would you do?”  
  
“What kind of a question is that?”  
  
“I want to know you have somewhere to go.” He looked down at his hands. “In case everything goes wrong.”  
  
Harry reached out and stroked his shoulder. “Mrs. Weasley would be happy to have me,” he said in a soft voice. “What would happen to you?”  
  
“Minerva offered me my old job. Potions. Or Transfigurations; now she’s Headmaster and the last applicant quit, that position’s opened up, too.” He smiled thinly. “But not Defence, which is for the best, really.” He looked at Harry. “They’re a bit thin on teachers at the moment, so they’ll take who they can get.” He paused. “Is Molly really all right with taking you in?  
  
“She told me so. Or Ron. They’re family. But really, I won’t hate—”  
  
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” Snape said harshly. He sucked in a ragged sort of breath. “You may well hate me. I tried to ruin your life. Sometimes I did it with the best of intentions, but sometimes it was just because I was a complete bastard. I killed a man you loved. I—did a lot of things I’m not proud of,” Snape told him in a thick voice.  
  
He drew his wand, but Harry covered Snape’s hands with his own, keeping it pointed away. “Why are you doing this?” Harry asked. “You don’t have to do it. We could keep on this way. We could give you another name, right now, today, and I’d never forget it. You could be anyone, and I swear I’d love you just the same.”  
  
“Maybe. Or maybe you’d forget me. Maybe we could make love and I’d hold you and things would be okay. Maybe tonight it would be wonderful—but tomorrow, I would be a total stranger to you. How many tomorrows would be like that? And maybe one day, you’d meet someone else. And you’d remember his name. Or her name.” Snape shook his head, his throat tight. “And maybe you’d forget me for good. And I’d be the only one to go on remembering.”  
  
Harry reached up and brushed Snape’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m so sorry I can’t remember your name,” Harry said. “I can see how it hurts you, and I don’t want to hurt you—”  
  
“It isn’t your fault, Harry. It never was. It’s mine. Had I not been so vicious, the odds would be better that the memory would be a pleasant one. Though I worry you will hate me—well, I cannot say the hatred wasn’t well earned.” He gently pushed Harry’s hands away from his wand.  
  
“But it might be good,” Harry said, desperate. “If it’s a good memory, you’ll have to make an honest woman out of me,” he joked weakly. “You’ll have to marry me and keep me in the life to which I’ve become accustomed.”  
  
“The loony life? That would be easy enough. It seems to happen around you without trying. But no. If it’s a good memory, I’ll take you back to Hogwarts with me. Where it all started. We can start over. I’ll earn our keep and you can finish your education. You did rather miss out that last year.”  
  
“Sure,” Harry agreed eagerly. “If they’ll _let_ me.”  
  
Snape gave this some thought. “You do still have problems.”  
  
“I know. I mix up my words and I can’t write very well, and sometimes I bollix simple things like eggs and tea. I’m not sure they’ll trust me with doing spells.”  
  
“I think they’d still take you in. They took Hagrid. Filch, too. Maybe magic is out—who knows? But either way . . . you wouldn’t be out of place.”  
  
Harry smiled. “There’s a home for all kinds of people at Hogwarts,” he said.  
  
“We’ll just have to prove that you’re stable. And maybe, if we can also prove that you’ve got the hang of most things, you’ll also be able to help out. Maybe you could assist Madam Hooch teaching Quiddich someday.”  
  
“I’d like that,” Harry said. “And if it’s good, and I’m stable—and if you give me the memory back and we’re okay, maybe there will be other things, too. For us. Like wine. And evenings out under the stars. And picnics,” Harry said optimistically.  
  
If Harry got his memory of Snape back and still loved him, Snape would forgo the picnics and offer the _moon,_ but all he said was, “Perhaps. Perhaps I’ll buy you a firebolt. Or a puppy,” he mumbled grudgingly.  
  
He was embarrassed by the adoring look Harry gave him.  
  
Snape took a deep breath. He brushed the fringe back from Harry’s face and felt a sense of peace when he saw the scar. “I have to return it to you,” he said. “It’s _of_ me, but it doesn’t belong to me.”  
  
Harry looked at him steadily. “Do you _know_ which one it is?”  
  
“No,” Snape told him. “It only matters that it’s yours. What it comes down to is that I have no right to look at it before you do.” He sighed. “I’ve been looking at a lot of your memories—or rather, memories of you—and that was because I had to in order to brew the potion to return them to you. But looking at this one would be . . . wrong. I’ve invaded your privacy enough.”  
  
Harry smiled. “I knew you would return it to me without looking at it.”  
  
Snape sat up straight in surprise. “You did? How?”  
  
“You don’t often do things for your own gain, do you? Honestly, you have a bit of a martyr complex. There just wasn’t any way you were going to look at it, and there wasn’t any way you’d decide not to return it. That wouldn’t be ‘the right thing.’ It didn’t matter whether it was a good memory or a bad memory; in the end, keeping it wouldn’t have been in _my_ best interests. And we both know you’d never do something that wasn’t in my best interests—even if it hurt you. So you weren’t going to look at it, because _you_ knew you’d return it either way.”  
  
Snape was surprised. “If you knew what I’d do, what didn’t you tell me? It would have saved me a lot of fruitless worry.”  
  
Harry tilted his head. “In the first place, like I told you, I don’t actually care whether you give the memory back. I don’t believe I’ll stop liking you—or that I _could_ stop liking you. But I think you had to figure it all out for yourself anyway. It wasn’t the conclusion that was important, it was the pro-produce? Mmm. Process. The journey.”  
  
Snape sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ve been putting this off long enough in any case. You are now, more or less, of sound mind. Do I have your permission to return your memory?” He took out the vial and dipped his wand in it.  
  
Harry leaned forward. “Yes. Hit me with it,” he said. It seemed to Snape that Harry still didn’t _really_ understand how high the stakes were. Perhaps it was better this way.  
  
Snape lifted the wand to Harry’s temple. The ghostly strand of light rose, clinging to the side of Harry’s head, then being absorbed by the boy’s brain. In less than a moment, it was gone.  
  
Snape stared at the boy. He wasn’t sure what to ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to _know_. He looked Harry’s face searchingly. “Do—do you remember me?” he stuttered.  
  
“Yes,” Harry said.  
  
“What’s my name?”  
  
“Severus Snape.”  
  
Snape’s mouth was dry. “How do you—what do you remember about me?”  
  
Harry blinked. “You taught Potions,” he said. “You had a voice like silk. I remember on our first day, you told us you could teach us how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death.” Harry smiled wryly. “And you said your students were usually dunderheads,” he added. “You were kind of terrifying. And you seemed to dislike me for some reason.”  
  
Snape let out a long, long breath. The _first_ memory. It was the first impression he’d made on Harry. It was not a particularly wonderful memory, but it could have been oh, so much worse.  
  
“ _And_ I remember that you’ve taken care of me for the last few months, and that you were absolutely determined to make me remember you. You never gave up on me,” Harry said, giving Snape an encouraging smile.  
  
Snape sat and stared for a few moments, simply stunned.  
  
Harry did not hate him.  
  
It was going to be all right.  
  
Snape swept Harry up and kissed him breathless, kissed him as hard and as long as he could. Harry seemed shocked by this and he froze, but after a moment he kissed back, reaching up to wrap his arms around Snape’s shoulders, one hand threading into Snape’s hair.  
  
Finally, Snape broke the kiss.  
  
“Wow,” Harry said. “I didn’t get that kind of reaction with Shakespeare. I should have known only quoting your own words back at you would seduce you.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Snape demanded, but he was laughing.  
  
“You have to admit, you’re kind of arrogant sometimes,” Harry said, looking apologetic.  
  
“Of course I am. No one will appreciate you if you can’t appreciate yourself.” And Snape did appreciate himself, for once. Or he could live with himself, at any rate.  
  
“I appreciate you,” Harry said soberly. “What you did for me is really fantastic. Thank you.”  
  
Snape couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard those words. “You’re welcome,” He replied.  
  
There was a knock on the door. “Severus?”  
  
Snape sighed. “That’s Minerva,” he said. “She said she wanted to talk to me before term starts up.”  
  
“Good,” Harry said. “We can ask if I can come too.”  
  
“Is that really what you want?” Snape stopped him. “You have lots of other options, now.”  
  
“Oh, I know. I even have a vault at Gringott’s, hopefully still in good financial shape. Of course, I also have three kids to manage, but that’s all the easier if I’m going to be at school with them.” He smiled at Snape. “Of _course_ I’m coming with you. I might still be a bit of a mess sometimes, but there’s no one I’d rather be a mess with.”  
  
“High praise indeed,” Snape agreed gravely.  
  
There was another knock, and Harry leapt up to answer the door. He got partway across the room before he tripped. “Whoops,” he said. “I’ve got another knob. Knob? Knut? Whatever. It looks like my shoe is untied again.” He looked up at Snape. “Would you mind?”  
  
Nothing was perfect. Harry would probably still have problems, but at least he knew Snape’s name. And Snape had problems too, but at least he had Harry. Maybe it would be worth the work they put into it.  
  
“I’ll take care of it.” Snape smiled and bent to tie Harry’s shoe.  
  
It was enough to be going on with. 


End file.
